Shadows of Love
by peaches-503
Summary: Chapter 9 FINALLY UP! Battle of Hadrian's Wall! (A somewhat different version!)
1. The Prophecy of Suffering

A/N: I really liked this movie and hence, this is somewhat based on the movie...I'm kinda just going with the flow, so let me know how you like it! Or if you do at all!  
  
Merlin stood, half covered in the night's darkness and half flickering with the light of the fire. With a simple glance, he beckoned Guinevere over to him, having words only for her ears. Arthur watched interestedly, though saying nothing, as she silently left his side, walking slowly to Merlin.  
  
The night was ripe with laughter and smiles. Arthur's knights and the Woads had won an undeniably overwhelming victory against the Saxons near the snowy mountains. It was neither in the imagination of Arthur and his distinguished knights, nor in that of Guinevere, Merlin, and the Woads that the two battling sides would ever come together spectacularly to conquer a common foe. After ages of fighting one another, it was realized by both Merlin and Arthur, the great leaders of each faction respectively, that the Saxons were bloodily vicious and would stop at nothing to end all life on the Isle. So they had joined together in a union that would come to be much glorified by time and circumstance.  
  
It was murmured amongst the new alliance that Arthur would be declared King once the Saxons were pushed far enough away and peace seemed imminent. Guinevere would be forever grateful to Arthur for uniting the people of the Isle and she felt content in his appointment to the Kingship, for she had seen that he had the will of a warrior but the heart of humble man. Equality and freedom would be Arthur's foundation for a stable Britain. At the forefront of Arthur's wishes and kingdom would be his respected, though feared, Knights of the Round Table.  
  
Guinevere slowed her pace even further, taking a fleeting moment to gaze at Arthur's knights, who had so valiantly saved her from certain death, even when she had still been at the time, a timeless enemy. Tristan rested nowhere but could be seen as a ghost throughout the camp, neither here nor there. There was Bors lounging comfortably on a blanketed rock, an obviously lusty and brutish man, though unequivocally handy with an axe. Gawain sat sharpening his sword, his person completely on guard to the sounds of nature and human alike. Dagonet was watching over the small child he'd borne responsibility since he'd been rescued, along with Guinevere. Near him, Galahad tended to the fire, his youthfulness passing across his face whenever his face blossomed into a smile. It was his young age that had as of yet spared him the intoxicating bitterness felt by the others. Bitterness was epitomized in Lancelot, the most-skilled fighter of Arthur's knights, though he lacked a benevolent spirit. Guinevere could sense a sadness that encircled his handsomely chisled face as he looked unto the victory celebrations of her people.  
  
She reluctantly tore her gaze from her saviours, though she would not dare call them as such in spoken words, and bowed her head to her leader Merlin.  
  
He did not offer greetings nor explanations. "Guinevere, much has yet to come to pass, occurrences that will be both unexpected yet fulfilling and I speak of this for not only you. I have already told Arthur what has been revealed to me by the gray mists and the trees of Avalon," Merlin said throatily, holding his hand up to stop her from speaking. "But it is not all welcome happenings. I will tell you now of an event that will alter your course and the courses of the people with whom you surround yourself. My Lady, if you should choose to stay with Arthur and revel in his raise to glory, there will be naught but suffering for you. You will have a love that shall endure yet may never be entirely realized. This love, this man shrouded in shadows, can bring only pain to the hearts of those in your life." Merlin ended his prophecy, rising from the darkened tree stump as he brushed stray snowflakes from his white-gray beard.  
  
Guinevere was silent, allowing the words to soak into her being before she found the strength to speak. "Merlin, wait. Who is this man you speak of? And how can I escape this fate?" She reached her hands out to clasp his strongly, her eyes intensely asking questions only he could answer. "I know you have the Sight. I believe in your powers and that is why I beg of you now to give me a name. A name I shall avoid all my days, in fear of your words and the suffering you have described. Please," Guinevere implored.  
  
Merlin's tired face grimaced, his forehead creasing into soft wrinkles, as he was clearly deeply troubled. "A name has not been revealed, nor would I bestow upon you if I knew. One cannot attempt to change what is written in the stars. One may only dampen the effects of this prophecy with foresight. I warn you now, dear girl. To stay with Arthur is to risk your own happiness and endurance. But perhaps, to leave him will also bring your ruin. 'Tis a choice only you may make." He left her then to ponder her racing thoughts, returning to the veil of trees that was home to him.  
  
Guinevere put her hand to her temple, uncertain of her path. She was sure of one thing; Arthur would be a celebrated leader who had the ability to unite her homeland against ruthless invaders that sought only the blood of her people. If she was to leave him, she would be deserting her friends, her family to certain and unmemorable death.  
  
Her heart spoke to her then, as she watched her fellow Woads dance entrancingly around the fire and sing lyrics of courage and triumph in battle. She then looked upon Arthur, enjoying the festivities, so becoming in his magnificence, his rugged looks calling her name. Guinevere would not run from her fate. She was no princess of love, but a warrior of freedom; if this was to be her destiny, so be it. Guinevere would fight until her blood was inexhaustibly drawn and her soul dampened to ruin.  
  
She wondered if Arthur was the man to whom she would be bound, as he approached her stealthily with Lancelot. Arthur bowed his head in greeting, stating simply, "We leave tomorrow. You will accompany us?"  
  
"Yes," she answered without fail to the two men before her, smiling beautifully. She knew Arthur was in some way of the utmost importance to the future of her land. The blood rushing through her veins whispered that she could not leave his side; something drew her forcefully towards his imposing figure.  
  
"We must battle what is left of the Saxons quickly, while they are weak still," Arthur said discreetly to his two trustworthy companions, wiping his brow.  
  
"Perhaps we shall just lure them here, what with this noise of song and dance!" Lancelot replied sarcastically, his face grim. He looked haughtily only from Arthur to the happy crowd, taking little notice of Guinevere.  
  
Guinevere's eyes flashed. "What of it? My people have a right to celebration—if it were not for us, you may not have been blessed with fortune this day!"  
  
Lancelot's beautiful chocolate eyes finally met hers, though his were unreadable, relaying warmth and coldness in the same instant. Arthur instinctively laid a hand on his oft-fiery friend's arm, forestalling further disagreements.  
  
"Lady, I offer my sincerest of apologies," Lancelot said softly, bowing his head nobly, though a small smile played on his sensuous lips. He turned brusquely to Arthur, who had kept close to Guinevere. "I'll check the lines and speak to Tristan of his scouts."  
  
"Yes, we'll confer later, once the festivities have run their course," Arthur replied, eager for a moment of peace with Guinevere. "You showed no fear this afternoon, Guinevere."  
  
Guinever looked after Lancelot's solemnly retreating figure, captivated by the confidence in his stride, his tall form looking broad and strong, yet ringed with a grey shadow. "There was no fear to show," she replied distractedly, her voice crawling in a near-whisper. In contrast to her words, she felt a shudder crawl down her spine, and it was not a reaction to Arthur's hand at her cheek, touching with the lightest of touchs. She suddenly felt fear, an emotion relatively unknown to her. Lancelot had turned once he reached the top of the grassy hill to glance down upon those he had just left. But he his eyes did not rest on Arthur, rather they searched fiercely for something within Guinevere. The moonlight glossed his short, curly hair and enlivened his fine, manly features.  
  
She convinced herself it was nothing but a chill from the coolness of the dark as she and Arthur returned to the warmth of the fire. Alas, no amount of persuasion could trick the stirring in her chest when Lancelot's eyes had graced hers.  
  
Fear. 


	2. Words of the Wind

A/N: Thanks for reading! Now I know this isn't historically accurate and it really isn't meant to be as the main points are the relationships and not necessarily geographical or historical accuracy. Forgive me!  
  
Also, I loved Lancelot and I definitely noticed some L/G looks going back and forth not to mention the fact that he did a certain something (ie. THAT shocking incident at the end of the movie) to protect her! So please read as I write! And review. Thanks so much, guys!  
  
Months had passed in a seemingly endless series of bloody battles and sad nights full of loss. Arthur and his Knights had had the good fortune to escape the endless sleep, though many other lives had been lost in the quest for the freedom of Britain.  
  
One morning, after a particularly disheartening though triumphant battle, Guinevere woke early, the faces of the dead insisting that she should not embrace sleep. She saw blood and sweat, heard cries for forgiveness and screams of pain, and felt the touch of death on her skin. Shivering as she walked through the sleeping campsite, the trees waved in the wind ominously, beckoning her to the pond. Guinevere passed Arthur, finally having gained some measure of sound rest. She lifted her hand to caress his brow, wondering what it was he dreamt of this morning. Glory? God? Dare she even think it...herself?  
  
Guinevere knew she cared for Arthur deeply and that their connection was made stronger by their unique union as two leaders. Arthur was a man written in legends and tales and would forever be remembered for his courageous spirit and deeds. A man she'd oft dreamed of loving and being loved by when she was but a fanciful, young girl.  
  
As she walked towards the pond leisurely, taking a moment to enjoy the natural peace of the early morn, light flowing through the leaves of trees and creatures wandering uninhibited. But for all her romantic notions of Arthur, she knew their affair lacked a raw passion fueled by desire and kindred spirits. Guinevere was aware that she may love Arthur but he did not keep her heart for his own and she did not lust nor need him to the point of suffering. For all his greatness, he had not yet conquered her body nor soul.  
  
Within herself, she could feel that he was not the man Merlin had warned her of. Lightening clapped suddenly as Guinevere approached the clean, cool waters of the pond, seeing another person had had a similar desire for solitude. At the sound of her footsteps, the figure sped to rise from his sitting position on the damp grass, though clearly his movements brought him pain.  
  
Lightening belted in the colour-streaked sky as Guinevere and the stranger were revealed to one another.  
  
Lancelot.  
  
"Lancelot! I nearly had a fright," Guinevere exclaimed, feeling her heart refuse to slow its quickened pace.  
  
A tight small passed over the Knight's pale, tired face. "Perhaps you should not wander...the forests are dangerous for a lady of your importance."  
  
Guinevere felt as though he a struck her, stung hurtfully by his words. "I am no more important than you are. Besides, I have proven myself in battle, have I not?"  
  
Lancelot moved his eyes away from her and onto the soft wrinkles in the water. "Is it admiration and compliment you look for here, then?"  
  
"Your civility overwhelms me, Sir," Guinevere retorted snidely, striding down the path that would bring her to the grassy shores of the water.  
  
Lancelot took a step aside as she came to stand beside him, her beauty ever present in the morning sun. "I do as I please."  
  
"And does it please you to be arrogant? So unnecessarily cruel?" she demanded, noticing for the first time, the ill look upon his face and again, that unreadable glimmer in the depths of his eyes. She forced herself to cast her concern aside. "You may be a friend of Arthur but you are not the Lancelot he extols. For you, I see, know only spite." Guinevere spun around, intending to leave him with the heat of her harsh words but was stricken as Lancelot winced in pain, grabbing the muscled spot between his shoulder and where his left arm began. "You are hurt," she whispered, helping him to the ground.  
  
"Nay, I am fine," he said, settling his jaw to abide the pain. "'Tis but a scratch."  
  
Guinevere rested down beside him, her hand delicately searching out his pain. "Lancelot, you must dress this wound." She pulled off her cape and hurriedly tore off a small corner, pressing it on his wound to inhibit the flow of blood. Her eyes scanned his handsome face, noticing the marks of war upon him. Bruises and scratches, some of which bled still, covered his smooth, flawless skin. Her fingers fluttered to his forehead, gently pressing on a small gash. "You must care more for yourself."  
  
Lancelot pushed her hand away, cringing again with the effort. "Please, leave me."  
  
Guinevere persisted, somehow unable to take heed of his words. His scent of sweat, blood, and death so like her own was overpowered by the strong smell of manliness, which enveloped her. "Does Arthur know of your injuries?"  
  
"No and we needn't bother informing him! I simple need a few hours peace," he answered hotly, leaving her an unsubtle hint.  
  
"You do not sleep. Why?" Guinevere asked, closely inspecting a cut just below his eye. Looking up unexpectedly, she met his eyes, their faces only mere breaths apart.  
  
"I have been kept awake these nights," answered Lancelot gruffly, taking her hand from his cheek and putting it upon her own self. "Go."  
  
Guinevere's body quivered in unfulfilled expectations and she sought to cover up her surprising disappointment. "Will you never take aid, then?"  
  
"Not from you." Lancelot looked up in the bright sky, captivated by the mirage of sweet morning colours.  
  
"Why do you....what is it about me that you....ah, nevermind. It doesn't matter." Guinevere rose up, her heart feeling too small at this instance. "I leave you to rot in your own pity, or whatever it may be." She left him there to ponder, her own mind lively with his cold words. Yet she felt as though this was only the beginning of a great story that only time could deliver. Shrugging off her worrisome thoughts, Guinevere sought to return to a steady comfort; in Arthur, there was unfaltering love and grace and perhaps there was a chance at passion yet with him.  
  
----  
  
As day broke upon the small, crowded site, Arthur gathered his two faithful confidantes at his side, pulling them away from the group of stragglers and soldiers packing away the remnants of the camp. Lancelot and Guinevere did not acknowledge the other's presence, considering the fiery exchange of the past morning.  
  
The suffering Lancelot of early morn had been replaced with a sturdy Knight, fearless of and indifferent to the dangers before him. "Arthur, we have lingered too long here. The remaining Saxons, who are likely to be more hot-blooded now after their losses, will catch our scent."  
  
Arthur pressed his forehead to Lancelot's and smiled. "You who knows me best shares my thoughts." Guinevere suddenly felt out of place, as though she was the rushing water that would crack the rock.  
  
Lancelot smiled contently, his tan, ruggedly bewitching face relaxed though an intensity still remained in his soulful eyes. "Not all your thoughts, friend."  
  
"Ah, yes. There are places I go you cannot follow. But now I must ask you to go somewhere where I cannot. Kent."  
  
Lancelot crossed his arms, a lock of hair shadowing his darkened eyes. Guinevere felt her very soul tense to resist the desire to brush it from his face and blushed, feeling as though the world could read her innermost feelings. "Kent? I don't understand," he said, his brow furrowed.  
  
Arthur now reached for Guinevere's hand, his expression softening with adoration. "I want you to go with Guinevere, protect her--,"  
  
"I do not need protection, Arthur. I am fighter of my own accord and I shall stay!" Guinevere declared vehemently.  
  
"And I have seen you, firsthand, Lady. You're abilities are undeniable and do not think, I do this because you are a woman. I send you away because I cannot bear to lose you." Arthur paused as Lancelot looked away upon hearing his last words. He glanced intently at Guinevere, "But there is more to it than that—more than my care of you. You are needed to enlist the people of Kent to aid our cause. They trust the Woads and since Merlin is unable to go, I ask that you should take his place. There is rumour that the Saxons will try their luck at that fortress next, as a last resort. If this has any measure of truth to it, we will need the help of those people otherwise all our efforts will have been in vain."  
  
Guinevere smiled at his obvious concern for her welfare, glad to see that war had not yet frozen him to indifference. "I will go, naturally. But I need not of a guard," she answered, nodding at Lancelot.  
  
Lancelot pursed his lips, his eyes burning into hers. "It is unwarranted territory. If the Saxons find you, they will not hesitate to end your life. Four eyes are better than two."  
  
"I do not care for your eyes, Sir. I do not need you!" she insisted, betraying a small voice inside her heart.  
  
An expression of sorrow flickered across the young Knight's face before he stamped one of his swords angrily in the ground. "So be it. Go and do not return!" He flung himself away from them towards that day's camp, his dark curly hair blowing carelessly in the wind.  
  
Arthur placed his hands on Guinevere's shoulders, a look of determination upon his ragged, though strong, face. "Please, allow Lancelot to accompany you. He is my most trusted Knight and friend--,"  
  
"He detests me, Arthur. You know this; you've heard the way he speaks to me, his voice full of disgust and the way he looks at me, as though I am little more than a slug of this earth.  
  
Arthur sighed, knowing there was some truth to her words. "It is not you, Guinevere. It is this life he hates. He fights for land not his own and people not his kin. For 15 years, he has been under siege of the Romans, his freedom always within grasp yet never attainable. And so he has hardened with time, grown more bitter and more ready to leave this place, to find a home." He dropped her hand, leaning somberly against a barky tree trunk as a regretful expression passed across his haggard face. "It is my own fault. He is here for my quest."  
  
"No. He is here for something else," uttered Guinevere thoughtlessly, her conscious speaking and not her rational mind. It was true. She could sense that Lancelot stayed for other reasons unknown, besides his devotion to Arthur, although she knew not what. Shaking her head, she looked at Arthur's puzzled appearance and sought to ease his own conscious. "Lancelot is his own man. He stands beside you because he knows that what you do is great. Greater than yourself, greater than him, than all of us."  
  
Arthur beamed, glowing happily at Guinevere as the bright sunlight shone upon her dark hair. "You have a many a skill, Lady."  
  
"Many of which are in battle, Arthur," she added coyly, a sly curve to her lips as she strolled around the tree trunk.  
  
"Why are you so hesitant to have someone accompany you? Or is it just that it would be Lancelot?" Arthur asked delicately. Guinevere remained silent and he shook his head, wondering if perhaps she simply was not yet ready to reveal all her secrets, and grasped for her soft, small hand. "You need not answer that. I suppose I hold hope that you and Lancelot can indeed become friends...or at least, be tolerable in one another's company!"  
  
"Arthur...," she whispered, her very soul yearning for him not to try to persuade her. The trees swayed in a light breeze and Guinevere felt the long grasses whisper to her that to go with Lancelot would leave nothing unchanged.  
  
"Lancelot has been at my side for 15 years. Despite our...differences, I would trust him with my life...and I trust him with you. It would give me great pleasure to know that my two closest allies are not at war with eachother," explained Arthur wisely, and for a moment Guinevere could envision a kingly crown atop his head.  
  
She ran her fingers lightly across his forehead and through his thick dark hair. "I go for you." Guinevere could feel her body quiver with her lie, knowing within her that she did not simply go because Arthur had bidden her to do so. She went for something else, though her heart would not yet unlock that secret.  
  
Arthur lowered his lips to hers, giving her the sweetest of first kisses that was filled with great promise and hope. Guinevere opened her eyes, looking just beyond Arthur's lovely face and straight into Lancelot's dark, wounded eyes, as he stood with the other Knights. He turned away quickly as she glanced at his stricken, paling face and concerned himself with forcefully sharpening his blades. "Goodbye, Arthur," murmured Guinevere, a small smile dancing upon her pink lips. Curiously, she felt as though this was not simply a short goodbye but an eternal goodbye of some sort.  
  
"Goodbye. We'll be reuinited soon enough," Arthur said calmly, waving Lancelot to his side. "Guinevere will be going to Kent after all. Will you accompany her?"  
  
Lancelot nodded nobly, clearly offering her a peace. "A wise decision, Lady. We leave at once," he said shortly, barely giving her a glance before returning to his friends.  
  
Guinevere raised her eyebrows at Arthur, who pressed his hand to her rosy cheek. "Give him a chance, Guinevere."  
  
The wind wailed an unspoken response to his words. It will only take one.  
  
Soon enough, Lancelot and Guinevere were gathered behind the long line of people taken from the Roman estate, their preparations ready and hearts heavy. Lancelot bade his goodbyes to his fellow Knights, offering them promises to meet again in Kent and warnings for their safety. "Without me, you will all depart this world as dust!"  
  
Bors laughed loudly. "Ay, not me. I expect for you to see me looking as handsome and alive as ever, possibly with another baby on the way!" He tapped Vanora's belly emphatically.  
  
"Your womanly features grow daily, my friend!" Lancelot kidded, a content smile revealing a lighter side to this dark Knight.  
  
Bors bounded over to his friend, sweeping him up in a playful hug. "See you soon," Bors said seriously in Lancelot's ear, as the others looked on, their eyes all relaying the same message.  
  
Arthur, having already given his gently goodbyes and good wishes to Guinevere gripped the shoulder of his greatest friend and Lancelot did the same, their bodies locked in a seemingly unbreakable bond. "Care for her, brother."  
  
Lancelot's eyes spiraled toward Guinevere. "Of course."  
  
And the pair set off on their travels, a deep, desperate silence between them as they rode over hills and grass and through twilight and shadow. Arthur's words lay nestled in their minds, though the power of them weakened with each mile and each sly glance.  
  
Their journey was only at its beginning. 


	3. Saviour

A/N: Thanks guys for all the support! Much appreciated. And I guess I know I'm not sticking to the movie but I'm kind of taking what was there and extrapolating on it...and omitting details (i.e. the ending!!) But bear with me and thanks again to those who have spent the time reviewing.

----

"I'd rather continue."  
  
Lancelot's dark eyes powerfully pierced Guinevere's, giving her the unnatural feeling of being truly exposed and she moved a step away from him, intent on shielding herself from...him, in every sense of the word. "We are under protection of darkness and shall take rest," he ordered softly, descending leisurely from his horse.  
  
Guinevere did not move, laying her hand upon her own horses mane to caress it gently. "I regret to inform you that is you who accompany me, Sir. We go on!"  
  
"We have ridden legions, Lady, and my horse is weary of any more distance," he returned, forcefully pulling a blanket from the saddle and letting it strike the firm ground heartily.  
  
"Your horse, or you? Legend tells of great Knights that know little rest and peace but whose skills are such that they have no need for such trivial things! Guinevere challenged, a fiery pink glow arousing on her cheeks as she spoke vigourously.  
  
Lancelot's full lips upturned, nearly smiling at her determined protests. "I am but a simple man. Hence, I need what all men need. Rest in the form of sleep and peace in the form of time away from chickens that do not cease their squawking!  
  
Guinevere's eyes widened at the implied insult of his words, despite his easy, tender tone, now more resolute to counter his jest. "You need not despair of being kept by a chicken, Lancelot. No chicken will ever have you!"  
  
He laughed at her sharp retort and nestled comfortably against a huge tree, the leafy branches sheltering him from the biting winds nipping at their heavy cloaks. "That is well then. I do not want for a chicken."  
  
Guinevere slide off her horse, suddenly forgetting her reasons for resisting a pause in their travels, and locked her eyes with Lancelot's, invisible threads of connection sprinkling into the refreshing evening air. "What is it you desire, then?" she asked quietly, uncertain if this was a query for him or for herself.  
  
"Do you not know?" Lancelot replied, his voice so gentle, so passionate, nearly lost in the wind as his gaze leveled hers.  
  
A warm glow spread throughout her at his steady stare, as she tried to deny the fire that passed between them at that moment, knowing that this was a chance to allow the past months fall to the ground and uncover a new path, full of hope. Alas, Guinevere let the past stay its course and lowered her eyes, severing the heated, though unnamed link between them and sat, hooded by leaves, at a tree opposite of him.  
  
And so they rested, silence heavy in the cool air that was full of unspoken truths and revelations. Guinevere gazed at the starry sky, her eyes making shapes among the tiny, bright bubbles of light as she felt herself drift onto the uninhibited world that was sleep.  
  
----  
  
_You will have a love that shall endure yet may never be entirely realized. This love, this man shrouded in shadows, can bring only pain to the hearts of those in your life.  
  
Love that shall endure  
  
Man shrouded in shadows.  
  
Pain.  
  
Arthur. No.  
  
Lancelot.  
  
Guinevere. Guinevere. Guinevere._  
  
Guinevere's eyes burst open, her torrid dream alivening her senses and her body taut. But her sleeping story was not entirely fiction, as Lancelot crouched before her, his brown eyes masked in concern and his hair messily adoring his smooth face.  
  
"Guinevere," he whispered, beckoning her back to the land of the awake, and out of a world where time had no essence and there was only truth. The purest of truths riddled in clues. She had seen the pieces of her fate but knew not how to complete them, or whether she desired it.  
  
He had said her name for the first time since they had met, always having kept a personal distance from her. Guinevere. She was certain that it had never been called more gently or more soulfully then in his voice. She drew her cloak around her, shivering from the damp dews of early morning. Yet she shivered still, as Lancelot kept his gaze, his handsome face betraying a sort of innocence she had not noticed before. "Has something changed, Sir? Am I worthy now to have my name dwell on your lips?" she demanded, her tone hoarse as she tried to steel herself against betraying her strong, unemotional character.  
  
"It is a beautiful name," he replied simply, his heart frantically trying to scribble on his gentle exterior. But Guinevere saw that he struggled and would not allow himself to show the honest soul that rested deep within him. "It is a good thing we took rest. Clearly, you were in need of it." He stood up, his expression calm and unreadable once again, all traces of sincerity and kindness obliterated.  
  
Guinevere rose, her legs shaking slightly after hours of disuse. "We. I need no more rest than you."  
  
Lancelot looked at her as he welcomed his horse to a new day, exasperation overshadowing him. "Must you argue always?" He sighed, and swung himself atop his faithful horse. "Besides, what one needs and desire are not always given. I sleep little these nights."  
  
Guinevere once again followed him, climbing onto her own horse, feeling him tremble as she settled into the saddle. "What is the cause of this sleepless reverie?" she asked quietly, knowing that it was she, not him, who chipped away the walls of her boundary.  
  
Lancelot paused before speaking somberly and when he did, Guinevere was surprised, hearing a genuine answer, not a teasing comment. "Honour." He spurred his horse, and quickly rode away from her, escaping as his confusing word settled in her thoughts.  
  
As they sped over hills and through grass, his revelation lingered in her mind, unwilling to fall into memory of past things said and done. What was his meaning? Honour? Honour won or lost? And why did that word strike at her heart like a sword, as though she played some role in Lancelot's relentless plague. Her rationality spoke that she had no part in his life; he was a figure in hers, as Arthur's friend and a Knight but not as a man. And she clearly had no part in his life, judging from his cold treatment of her since their first meeting. Dreams were nothing more than fanciful stories with no real meaning.  
  
Still, Her dream lingered in her mind, carrying Merlin's words as a torch. But this torch would not be extinguished. She could not forget his warning. And never could she cede herself to entanglement of any sort with any man except Arthur. He was honour. But her dream had shunned him and dangled Lancelot's name before her instead. Lancelot was not the man in the prophecy; of this Guinevere was certain. All encompassing, passionate love, Merlin had told her once, was not of one for another. It was an intense bond between two people that only death had the power to challenge. And Lancelot felt nothing for her but cool disregard and a sense of duty because of his relationship with Arthur.  
  
Finally at peace with her confliction over Lancelot and fully prepared to meet his spite with friendship, she drove her horse ahead, lifting her face to the sun, warmth spreading through her body. Though her lover had not passed into her reality yet, Guinevere felt confident that she could spurn the prophecy and begin the next chapter of her life with Arthur.  
  
And friendship with the Knight Lancelot.  
  
----  
  
But friendship was not written in the sky of that evening as Guinevere stood impatiently, her eyes lifted as dark clouds hovered above her. "We've been going in circles."  
  
Lancelot lifted his head slowly, as he crouched low to the damp ground, his eyes alert and uniquely tense. "We are not lost."  
  
"No? Then perhaps we wander on the same paths for a reason? Enlighten me, then!" Guinevere replied, anger touching her tone as she strode to stand before him. Despite her supposed quest for a platonic alliance, she refused to submit to his leadership simply because of her sex and had every intention of forcing him to reveal their course. Critical time was being wasted. After ages of endless riding, Guinevere had begun to notice that the trees and wildflowers recurred through their travels, eventually coming to know that they had been not moving forward but riding in an endless ring. But more than any other reason, Guinevere believed Arthur moved farther into the distance and would soon be but a pleasant memory if they did not make haste. Though her loyalty to him remained steadfast, his dominance of her innermost thoughts dwindled to little more than passing glimmers of fondness and respect. Instead, her body yearned for a passion unfulfilled, for a love built on more than common quests and companionship. And every hilltop she cascaded down and grassy knoll she crossed, Guinevere knew she was drawing nearer to it, unable to deter. To her fate. She was frightened, this was true. Only this morning she had felt certain that she could be master of her own destiny and now, she doubted her ability. Of all things to fear, she feared love above blood and cruel death. But a part of her was welcoming, deeply desiring to love and be loved with fiery delight. The question was: Which side of her would emerge her destiny was bestowed upon her? Honourable Guinevere, loyal to her future sovereign? Or a woman wanting to be saved from the cold dankness that was love based on friendship?  
  
As though he was blessed with the gift of reading minds, Lancelot rose to his full height and for an instant, Guinevere felt something within her submit to his daunting, though beautiful character. He said nothing, but brushed a finger lightly against her rosy lips, silencing her impassioned protests. A strange heat trembled along her spine at his touch and she recoiled from him, determined not to allow Lancelot to see the effect his simple contact with her skin had on her. It was unexplainable. But Lancelot moved quicker than she, pulling her by the waist nearer to his body, their faces close and eyes level. Guinevere did not draw away this time, feeling her own will enticed by his presence, nor did she avert her eyes, finally for the first time able to read the emotion of his gaze.  
  
A dark cloud drifted across the moon, shielding its comforting light. Shadows danced across Lancelot's face and Guinevere stepped back abruptly, her hand falling from his. _Shrouded in shadows.  
_  
The prophecy...was it...?  
  
Lancelot's soft expression hardened and without a single word, he pushed Guinevere to the ground powerfully. She cried out in surprise, looking up in time to see a single arrow whiz through the air where she had just stood. Guinevere searched for her bow among her belonging on the ground, her shock now replaced with rage at this being that dare take her life without having the courage to show his face. Lancelot was faster, drew his sword and mightily threw it into the trees and bushes, seemingly aimless. But Guinevere heard the painful shriek of a man but seconds from death a short distance away.  
  
Alone, Lancelot strode through the forest, coming upon on the man he had blindly killed embedded by his sword into the trunk of a weighty tree. Blood drizzled onto the ground as he pulled his trusty weapon from the dead man's chest, collapsing slightly as he sat on the grass beside another mark on his killing tally. No one, not even Arthur, knew the strain taking lives had placed on him. For every man he killed, regardless if he be an enemy, a story stood behind that bloodied body; a wife, sons, daughters, fathers, mothers, homes, friends...Every man had a purpose and Lancelot had always struggled to see enemies as nameless beasts who deserved death.  
  
Yet taking this man's life did not weigh on his conscience. Not at all. _She_ had almost been killed.  
  
Guinevere emerged from the trees and stood boldly in the clearing, her bow raised to any other attackers. Lancelot lifted his eyes to her emptily. "There is no one else."  
  
"You do not know that! Surely this man was not alone?" Guinevere insisted, alert to even the slightest sway of the trees or whimpering of the wind.  
  
He shook his head, rubbing his hands together as he gazed at them, fixated by the fresh blood stained on his fingertips. "No. This man has been tracking us all day...which is why I did not move further and went in circles, as though we knew not of our path, to give him an opportunity to reveal himself."  
  
Guinevere lowered her bow, knowing now that their close moment had been a product of Lancelot's plot to lure this man to show his identity and nothing more. He had quieted her to save their lives not...not for other reasons. He was not the man Merlin spoke of. "I see," she replied simply, trying to forget the shadows that had crossed Lancelot's face and the truths that had laid so open to her but were now lost.  
  
"I killed this man."  
  
His tone was steady, but his eyes were wild and deceived the heartless character the stories of him told. "I have taken the lives of many."  
  
Guinevere saw the man of the legend was gone, a simple human taking his place. "It has not been in vain," she sympathized, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from his eyes. She saw that he was troubled by his actions, both past and present, and that killing was not an easy matter for him. "It is the men themselves that trouble you, not the act. You wonder of their families, their loves and friends. Of who they are."  
  
Although Lancelot said nothing, his body still, Guinevere knew she was right. For she felt the very same, despite her willingness for the warrior- life she led. Gently, she took his face in her hands, not thinking him weak or cowardly for regretting ending the lives of his enemies. Her thumb ran the length of his cheek as he was stirred to run his hands through her loose hair, resting them on her open throat. "I do not regret killing this man though," Lancelot said in a low, emotion-filled voice, finally willing to speak. "He nearly took your life. Because of my gamble, you were nearly lost to me."  
  
Guinevere trembled under his touch. Lost to me. "Lancelot, I--," she breathed.  
  
"Lost to Arthur," Lancelot interrupted, reverting back into his guarded self, having nearly made an unfixable mistake.  
  
"Yes," she replied, distracted by his speedy switch, her heart still beating rapidly. "You saved me," Guinevere said, reaching out to lay her hand on his arm as he jumped up, feeling heat reverberate through her, even from such simple contact.  
  
Lancelot moved forward, as though he had not heard her speak. At the edge of the clearing, he stopped and turned towards her, an obvious battle playing across his face. "And I will save you...every time henceforth from this moment," he promised, his voice breaking slightly, disappearing into back through the trees.  
  
Guinevere was left alone, confused and weary. She had always been a woman of rational thought and intellect, governed by her will and mind, not her heart. Her soul screamed to her now to follow him, to discover his mysteries while her mind told her that he was merely a man broken by endless battle and reminded her of his earlier disinterest and coldness towards her.  
  
It was her choice and she knew she had few to make concerning her fate. Nevertheless, if she only had this one, her mind must be in the right. It had never failed her before this night.  
  
Or had it just never encountered Lancelot? 


	4. The Past Burns Yet

A/N: Sorry about the wait guys...it's been a crazy week at work! Thanks again guys for all the support and reviews—I love them. And also thanks for all A/G fans for still giving my fic a chance! I figured we needed a different pairing, what with all the Lancelot/Arthur slash! I think that's one of the reasons fanfic is so great—you can build whole new relationships among your favorite characters! Variety is the spice of life, right?  
  
This chapter was actually supposed to be a lot longer but I've decided to break it up as it's already impossibly long and I still have one more scene to write, which shouldn't take long. So prepare for another update rather soon, I promise!  
  
I've been chatting to a reader of this fic and we've discovered a hole in my story...Lancelot died, right? In the movie, yes. In my story, no. This story takes place before the final battle that will lead to Arthur's kingship—it is coming. Sorry, if people were confused. I just never really think things all the way through! R & R, please!

----  
As day broke upon the sky in streaks of vibrant pink and rich oranges, Guinevere rested silently in the short grasses, delicately pulling apart a loaf of bread with her fingers. A short span away, Lancelot sat, huddled like a child over his rations, eagerly anticipating sustenance.  
  
She felt a smile crawl across her face as she watched the innocence and child-like quality shine through his shadowy, infallible exterior. It was a welcome transformation in her observant eyes and Guinevere found herself unable to stay her peaceful silence, feeling driven by some sort of force to break their stalemate and end their drama.  
  
"Did your parents teach you nothing of proper dining matters?" Guinevere criticized unintentionally, realizing she sounded harsher than she'd wanted, a simple jest having been her goal.  
  
But Lancelot did not defend himself with insults, and smiled in such a mischeiveous manner, his teeth sparkling brightly in the emerging sunlight, that Guinevere dare not stray her sight from him. His cheeks were rosy with the morning's cool winds, gentle curls framing a forehead free of worry creases. "Coming from a wild spirit as yourself, I suppose my manners must truly be pitiful. Perhaps you could enlighten me?" he teased.  
  
Guinevere grinned, rising from her spot to sit nearer to him, her arms wrapped around her knees. "Do you jest of my upbringing?"  
  
"Do you of mine?" he returned, no traces of anger clouding his voice.  
  
"Ah, never. And neither were you. Knights do not laugh. Nor jest," Guinevere said lightly, her hands warming slightly as she passed him a piece of bread, their hands touching in the briefest of contact.  
  
His eyebrows raised speedily. "Then what, pray you, is it we do?" asked Lancelot, playing to her easy banter.  
  
"You bloody your swords to no end. You are but a fighter through and through!" Guinevere explained, biting her lower lip.  
  
Lancelot laughed, a sound sweet upon her ears. "You must think me a simple man indeed."  
  
"Is there more yet to see, then?" she played, gesturing with her arms, a smile brightening her glowing skin. She felt at ease for the first time since being rescued by Arthur. There were no expectations of her at this moment, no one looking at her with eyes full of hopes and promises for her to fulfill. There was no Arthur, who, for all his brilliance and amicability, saw her as his object of passion, his pension for personal happiness. "For I have tired of your sword tricks!"  
  
Lancelot scoffed, his eyes sparkling as shivers tingled her spine. "More tricks, the lady begs! Well, there is one I'm sure you have yet to see." He leaned close to her, his manly scent wafting over her, as her consciousness slowly faded and her mind fell to sleep. Her heart kept its beat, the sound bellowing in her ears and she saw nothing but his handsome face drawing nearer to hers, the leaves and clouds obliterated from her sight. She waited for his touch, a caress, or a brush of his fingertips or a soft kiss on her cheek, or dare she imagine, upon her pink lips.  
  
But he passed her, his lips daringly close to her ear, whispering something only for her to here. "Magic."  
  
Guinevere let a small smile grace her lips, hiding her unexpected disappointment. Did she desire more from him than words? So it would seem. As he pulled away from her, he reached behind her ear, a shiny gem suddenly appearing in his hand. Guinevere was astonished, her eyes widened in true amazement as she cast aside her bread and examined the beautiful stone in her hands. "How did you...wait, there is no possible way--,"  
  
"True wizards do not reveal their secrets," Lancelot said, taking a sip of water, confidence emanating from his gaze.  
  
"Who showed you that? Certainly not from the rest of your fellowship!" Guinevere asked.  
  
Lancelot's grin faltered and his gaze drifted to the skies above, his eyes searching for something too far away to rest upon. "My father. My father was a great man, full of tricks and mischief," he said answered finally, his tone somber.  
  
"You miss him." It was not a question, but a statement. Guinevere sensed that though Lancelot had left his family in Sarmatia 15 years ago, they still lingered around him in shadow.  
  
"Yes." He bent his head, signaling an end to their conversation and Guinevere knew that their time had ended. She stood up, intending on taking a short walk before they set out on the second-last day of their journey. It was an end she welcomed.  
  
"He is dead now, I am sure," Lancelot broke in unexpectedly, his voice laced with pain as his darted to and fro, unsettled.  
  
Guinevere rested again on the soft ground, a sympathetic expression adorning her face. "You do not know that, Lancelot."  
  
He nodded, his eyes still untamed in the distance. "I do. _I do_. The Romans treated us likeslaves, keeping us alive for their use and killing those too old to serve. Disobedience, for even the smallest of crimes, was punished with death."  
  
Guinevere said nothing, her own eyes softening as she looked at this broken boy hidden within a fearless man. "Before I left, there was a boy in my village, Gilhiad was his name. His family was starved, the Romans deliberately allowing them all to turn to dust. Gilhiad could not bear to watch his mother fade, her suffering too painful to observe, and so one day, as the guards rested, he stole bread and fruit from their camp. It was not an act of vengeance or violence, he merely wanted to feed his family," Lancelot continued, trapped in the still burning fires of his past. "Do you know his punishment?...He was nailed to the gate of our village, left to starve or be picked apart by the birds, whichever came first. Anyone seen helping him was to suffer the same fate. And the day I left Sarmatia, to come here, I was _thankful_, as I passed Gilhiad's rotting corpse. I _wanted_ to leave...I deserted my family and was glad to do so." His voice broke, and he jumped from the ground, his arms leaning against a tree and his head bowed dishonourably.  
  
Guinevere followed him, wanting nothing more than to comfort him but fearing his reproach as he had always done in the past. "Lancelot, you bear no blame for leaving your family. It was not a choice."  
  
"But I desired to leave. To save myself and leave them to fates unknown, but most certainly horrific," he insisted savagely, his back still dauntingly towards her. "I can never forgive myself for deserting them. I should've stayed and died with them."  
  
Guinevere hurried forward, ducking under his arms and settling herself between him and the tree-trunk. "Don't ever say that. Would that be what they wished for you? Death? Nay, Lancelot, they would be proud if they could look upon you now. For you have survived countless trials and battles."  
  
He raised his head, looking deep into her eyes. "Would they be proud of their only son's murderous ways?"  
  
"You have saved lives," she persisted, reaching to pull him from the darkness that enveloped his soul. "You have come to the aid of your friends many times. And to Arthur." Lancelot looked away, trying not to take heed of her impassioned words, but Guinevere grabbed his chin, pulling his gaze back to her. "You have _saved_ me!"  
  
"Can you save me, then?" he replied instaneously, his eyes full of fervor.  
  
She realized then how close they were, his warm, fresh breath whispering on her skin and his dark eyes boring into her, searching for answers she had not. But Guinevere did not run from him, nor betray what her heart desired to speak. "I believe I can...but you have to let me." She let her eyes wander his soul, their very cores suddenly bonded to one another.  
  
He looked at her peculiarly, the corners of his lips upturned in a tiny smile as he traced a finger along her lower lip. "No. You are Arthur's saviour. You will do right by him, Guinevere." This time, it was he who had broken their moment, though Guinevere felt shame when he had mentioned Arthur. Betrayal.  
  
Lancelot pulled away from the tree, the Knight replacing the gentle man she'd been witness to an instant before. "We should carry on. We have a fair day's ride today," he said distantly, as though she was a simple charge of his.  
  
"Lancelot?" she called out delicately, intent on severing the distance he'd placed between them.  
  
"Ready?" He ignored her platitude and climbed upon his horse, spurring him to life.  
  
As she hurried to follow, a voice inside of her screamed with frustration, outraged at his sudden coldness. Why was it every time they grew closer, he pulled away, determined to set great distance between them? Why could she not read the tales written in his eyes? What was it he hid so desperately?  
  
_Riddles resolved to stay forever unanswered._


	5. Truth Revealed

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! I actually have a plan for this story and everything. No longer am I writing blindly!  
----

Guinevere's horse pounded up a gently rolling hill to where Lancelot awaited her arrival, resting upon his horse casually, his hands caressing his prized companion's long, dark mane. They had not spoken for hours, time passing slowly despite their quickened pace to meet their final destination. All the while, a slow anger stirred within Guinevere as she considered Lancelot's two-sided treatment of her; one moment, he was kind, thoughtful and she could believe that he was more than a simple guide bidden by Arthur to her. But with a billowing gust of wind, Lancelot could become volatile, distant, and even outright cruel. Guinevere was no princess, this was true, but she was a human being as any other and deserved the respect as such.  
  
As she glared up at him, meeting his eyes levelly, she felt her inner strength course through her veins once again and was greatly relieved. Since she'd met Arthur and all he encompassed, and even more so since she'd been trapped in time and space with Lancelot, she'd felt weakened as though her independence and solidarity had been slowly seeping from her. As though _he'd_ weakened her.  
  
"Would it please you to rest, Lady?" Lancelot inquired dutifully, self- importance tinting his voice.  
  
Guinevere forced herself to ignore his detached manner and instead reveal to him some of her own strength. "I need not rest. But if you do, Knight-- ," she said haughtily, addressing him as formally as he had her, "I shall wait." She would play the injured party no more, nor would she naively subject herself to his reproachful attitude towards her.  
  
"Guinevere--,"  
  
"Quiet." Guinevere ordered, her eyes scanning the trees below them, as she realized they lay as prey, in wide sight of any eyes. She sensed a presence and listened for the slightest crack of a branch, watching for any dark shadows in the growing moonlight.  
  
"I hear it," whispered Lancelot, sliding off his horse, as he slowly and soundlessly withdrew his swords. His movements were calculated, tense, as his eyes darted between the trees and bushes. "You continue to Kent, Guinevere. I shall remain here to teach these fools a lesson."  
  
"Spare me your arrogant bravery. I go nowhere." Guinevere withdrew her bow emphatically, a fierce expression glowing upon her pretty face.  
  
"This is not a discussion. _Go_," he hissed, descending the hill gradually, his footsteps expertly silent.  
  
"I am no child. But if you are that fearful, worry not. Go. Or rest easy. I won't let them touch you," she replied snidely, casting him a side-long look. Guinevere aimed her bow, determined to utilize the skills she'd been born with—she would cast aside her quality for no man.  
  
Lancelot flicked his eyes quickly to hers and Guinevere felt a strong, raw pang in the very core of her body as she gazed, slightly in a daze, at his taut, lean body, a fearless expression on his glorious face. She suddenly felt very aware of the physical needs and desires of her sex, a blush rising in her creamy skin that he, fortunately, was distracted from noticing. Guinevere sprung herself to attention, feeling more embarrassed that she'd deterred from her task, all to indulge in thoughts so natural yet so unknown to her.  
  
"I await the skillful strikes Arthur has praised of you and your bow," Lancelot said, the merest hint of a smile playing on his lips.  
  
"Better," Guinevere promised simply, firing a shot into the obstructing trees. Both, unbeknownst to the other, held their breath, waiting. A man's tortured cry careened into the night sky, and Guinevere and Lancelot jumped forward, knowing the positions of their attackers. A flash of weaponry and armour revealed their identities. Saxons.  
  
Guinevere felt a boiling anger build within her, detesting the thought of those brutes ruining her land with their careless and destructive ways. She ran forward, screaming the war-cry of the Woads, plunging into a group of bulky Saxons, her dagger lifted in her hands. Lancelot was quickly behind her, impressed with her daring boldness and willingness to fight blood- thirsty, frighteningly dangerous men, though determined to protect her from carelessness. Arthur had confided in him of Guinevere's deep-seated hatred of the Saxons and her readiness to give her life to see them perish from the Isle, forcing Lancelot to promise the safety of Guinevere's life.  
  
Lancelot gripped one of the men from behind, his sword cutting their neck viscously open, warm blood spilling over his rough hands. He whirled around in a quick circle, slicing the stomachs of two more Saxons, not remaining still long enough to see their wailing bodies crumble to the ground. Lancelot let out a low growl, feeling his own blood pulse just beneath his skin as sweat drenched his forehead. He saw now that they faced a great number of enemies, and felt trapped in time, watching as Guinevere plunged her knife, crudely yanking it upwards into the stomach of a young Saxon, his insides dripping onto the stained grass.  
  
She looked up, meeting his eyes for an instant, breathing heavily, her hair wild around her shoulders and her eyes unnaturally bright. Bodies littered the distance between them and blood drenched the once-blossoming ground. And yet they connected in this moment, so intensely that Guinevere nearly crossed the death before her to reach him, the sounds of more Saxons distant to her desires.  
  
_Would they only be able to reach eachother with dead between them?_  
  
Guinevere, in her reverie, failed to notice a hairy, older Saxon rush behind her, grabbing her by the neck fiercely. Crying out in surprise, she looked up into the ferocious blue eyes of her assailant, as he gripped her tightly, his fingers crushing the bones in her neck. "Pretty. Pretty," he sneered, running his free hand vigorously along the curves of her feminine shape. Guinevere barred her teeth, struggling to free herself from his grasp, willing herself not to let this old man be the death of her. She freed one of her hands, and threw it violently into his manhood, watching as his face fell slightly in pain. The Saxon did not lose his hold on her but the lusty desire in his eyes was replaced with a chillingly murderous look as he brought his dagger to her neck, the cool touch tingling her.  
  
She waited for the impact, for her blood to be shed, given to the land she so desperately loved. But instead she felt the Saxon's hands drop from her as he fell to his knees, his head lolling lifelessly against her. A shiny sword lay in his back, surrounding by a growing pool of bright blood.  
  
Lancelot.  
  
_And I will save you...every time henceforth from this moment._  
  
His pledge rang steadfast in her ears as she registered his tall figure before her, making sure she was unharmed. Lancelot said nothing, but nodded his head towards her and handed her fallen dagger and she knew now that he would not stop her again from fighting battles for a cause so close to her own heart; she had won his respect with her selflessness, whereas it was resented by Arthur. He would not hinder her, but rather would be there when she would fall. For some reason, this smelt sweeter to her than any victory in battle.  
  
She took her knife from him, their bloodied hands touching and it was as though she had been revived, feeling the will to fight course through her once again. Guinevere stepped over the dead Saxon's oozing body, coming alongside Lancelot, whose dark curls crossed his brow.  
  
"There are more still," he said plainly, running a finger pensively across his lips, his eyes still acutely alert.  
  
Guinevere smiled up at him. "Then there will be no more." She crossed her dagger with his sword, cementing their bond as fellow warriors and their commitment to protect the other. She started forward, moving deeper into the forest, where more Saxons most certainly lay hidden amongst the dark bushes, preparing to pounce on the two travelers. But this time she did not head into battle alone. Lancelot walked at her side, his swords drawn for what was a never-ending battle in his life.  
  
Guinevere no longer hid behind herself anymore nor fought only with the result of saving her own life. There was another life to save as well.  
  
----  
  
Guinevere looked around her, the stench of blood and sweat deadening her senses as she walked amongst the men she had killed so fiercely. To her eyes, there were none left alive and deep within her, she felt a swell of pride at her accomplishment. Unlike other women in her age, she refused to consign herself to womanly duties and had become instead a warrior, much to the chagrin of male admirers who wanted docility, not the ability to wield a sword.  
  
She knew not where Lancelot was, having seen him aggressively fighting a young Saxon, likely not yet sixteen, not moments before. Guinevere searched for his muscular, dark-haired form, the outlines and contours of his body familiar now to her. She hurried though the forest, listening for sounds of the Knight or more incoming Saxons, eager to leave this place and continue their journey before they were again under siege.  
  
Guinevere saw him then, a short distance away, battling a huge, broad- shouldered man. The Saxon was not the same youth she had seen earlier; this one was older, more skillful in his swordsmanship, ducking consistently Lancelot's calculated blows. She felt her heart beat quicker within her, as she watched this battle, as though she had more invested in it than simply her guide to Kent. With his free hand, the Saxon warrior, reached for a different weapon that had been flung to the ground, his light eyes still concentrated on Lancelot's juts. Guinevere gasped, as the weapon was unveiled to her sight; it was a large rock, covered in metal spikes and attached to a thick piece of rope by which it was swung. The assailant lunged at Lancelot, who was just barely able to dodge this new, clever weapon. Guinevere saw the widening of Lancelot's eyes as he realized the devastating power of the spiky rock when it slammed into the tree against which he had only just been leaning against. The Saxon grinned, and swung it towards Lancelot's mid-section forcefully. Guinevere shut her eyes, hearing only the sound of crunching armour and feeling a sharp pain in her side, as though it had been she who had been pummeled. The pain was blinding; her eyes saw nothing but sprinkles of white and black and all sounds were blocked from her hearing. She stumbled, nearly collapsing to the ground in pain, her hands searching herself for blood. But there was none. For it was not her wound. She felt Lancelot's suffering, right through to every last inch of her. Finally, she forced her eyes open, the pain slowing her movements as she pushed her hand into the grimy earth to steady herself. Guinevere glanced up, frightened of what sight might be relieved unto her straining eyes. Her eyes fluttered shut, the aching sensation breaking her concentration as she sought for him. "Lancelot?" she murmured to none but herself. Guinevere struggled to brave the pain, able to keep her eyes open for only flashes of vision.  
  
_The moonlight. The shining stars. Trees drifting in the wind.  
  
The Saxon stood, looking down at a helpless Lancelot.  
  
Blood, so much blood.  
  
Lancelot's courageous face, his lips never begging for mercy, for life._  
  
His own sword raised high, about to betray him, it's faithful owner. Guinevere felt a sudden energy strength her heart and then invigorate her body. She could not let him die. The wind once again told her that to watch this death, of all the ones she had been privy to, was fated not to happen. _Wait, Lancelot, wait_, she urgently called to him in her thoughts. Gathering the very last drops of her spirit, Guinevere leapt infront of Lancelot, shielding his body from harm, her bow meeting the forehead of his assailant, whose sword was raised for a final blow to Lancelot. "If you want him, come and claim him," she dared evenly, knowing she could strike him with five arrows before he would have time to even contemplate impaling her.  
  
The Saxon snarled at her, clearly unhappy about the prospect of running from a mere woman. He leaned forward, his long greasy hair shielding his face, and spat on her feet, yelling incomprehensibly as he scurried away. Guinevere, disgusted, allowed the man to run from his battle, her bow still raised as she counted to ten under her breath. Ten. She shot an arrow, seemingly a blind attempt, into the trees, watching contently as the nasty Saxon abruptly scampered without direction, his leg lacerated by her arrow. "Men." Shaking her head, Guinevere whirled around into the drawn, surprised face of Lancelot, the man designated by Arthur to protect her. "Is it bad?"  
  
Lancelot said nothing, his breathing uneven and haggard as he fell back against the tree. "You must--," Guinevere started, but spun back around, guarding her Knight, after hearing a great rustling amongst the trees. "Do not move!" Realizing that Lancelot could fight no more, she ran rapidly, feeling the branches slap her soft skin like whips but taking no notice as she was anxious to lead the Saxons away from him. Guinevere spied a break in the forest around a small pond, a plan already formulating in her quick mind as she skillfully climbed a huge tree, still listening for her followers. The Saxons knew little of light treading, that much was certain. Guinevere pulled a rock she'd nabbed from the shore of the pond and tossed it into the forest resuming on the other side, watching intently as the Saxons stumbling upon her trick, looking to the opposite side of the pond, where they believed she'd gone. There were three. Narrowing her eyes, Guinevere took a deep breath, knowing she only had three hasty shots to chance and that to miss was to suffer death. _One_. She fired, her breathe ceased in time, as her eyes looked, relieved, upon the falling figure of one of her assailant, an arrow piercing his skull. The other two Saxons gazed around them quickly, eagerly searching for the mystery shooter, their own weapons held warningly high. Guinevere grinned in her hiding spot, knowing victory was but two arrows away. Licking her lips, she felt at home in this warrior-persona, feeling nothing of her earlier affliction over Lancelot. There was no weakness to be had in her now. As she aimed, she dedicated her final victories of this battle. _For Arthur. Two_. Her prey plummeted to the ground, instantanesouly dead with a shot to the heart. Guinevere exhaled loudly, feeling the breeze ruffle her hair and tree leaves lifting in the air, dancing in the invisible wind. She felt it now; the spirits of her people flowed through her and bid her the courage she needed for victory. But something else enlivened her soul to survive, a feeling nameless by her choice. Guinevere aimed, feeling the unknown force drive her will and feed her strength. _For Lancelot_.  
  
----  
  
Guinevere scanned the bloodied corpses that stained the once-luscious grass, making sure that none of the attackers were left alive to bring more harm unto them. "Lancelot? They are all dead..." She glanced up, her eyes searching the field for where he had once stood, seeing no sign of his tall, imposing figure. "Lancelot?" She moved quickly to where he had last stood, her bow held high in her arms in case a devastating trick was being played upon her. Still, he was no where to be found, as though he'd melted into the nighttime mists. "Lancelot?" she called frantically, tiny beads of sweat forming on her brow. _Panic_. Panic was an emotion unknown to her before this night. In times of stress and worry, Guinevere had always been held on a pedestal by her people as a beacon of calmness and had been praised for her ability to look beyond the trying crisis. But now Lancelot clouded her sight and thoughts, he was all she could see and think of. There was nothing but fear in her heart, all other emotions dissipated to her loss. She treaded softly, making her way into a shadowy nook, untouched by the moon. Lancelot. He had collapsed, sprawled across crushed blades of glistening grass and his face contorted in suffering. "You are hurt," Guinevere fell along side him, examining the fleshy wound around what was left of his armour. Lancelot pushed away her hand, the movement bringing a flicker of pain to his eyes.  
  
"You must remove--," Guinevere began as though his words were invisible to her ears.  
  
"I do not need your assistance!" exclaimed Lancelot bitterly, a trail of blood seeping from a scratch on his cheek.  
  
Their companionship of late had obviously disappeared. She raised her eyebrows, her fingers still delicately prodding his wound, searching for remnants of a weapon. "Because you do so well on your own, Sir?" Guinevere knew this would sting his manly pride, because despite his new-found respect for her, he most likely resented having been protected by her, the woman of whom he was designated to safe-keep.  
  
"That man was as good as dead," said Lancelot, defending what little pride he held steadfast in his heart as he realized the deeper meaning of her words.  
  
"Then the bow aimed at your heart...was that an illusion, then? Was it a myth I dreamed with mine eyes?" Guinevere asked, her voice firm though tranquil as she looked deep into his eyes.  
  
"If it is gratitude you seek, look elsewhere," he replied shortly, though his eyes did not share the same sentiments, as they were cloaked in both despair and ache.  
  
Though stung by his obvious disregard, Guinevere said nothing, leaning towards him to wipe the darkening blood from his face.  
  
"Leave me, please."  
  
Guinevere persisted, her heart unusually grave with worry and silently she prayed to Arthur's God, to the moon and stars to spare Lancelot's life. Do not take him from me. The thought was natural to her as the sun's light on the earth, but she knew not why. She lifted his armour, sighing forlornly as bright blood poured from his wound, obviously deep and serious. With haste, she tore a piece of cloth from her dress and as gently as she could, pressed it over the wound, hoping to stop the flow of blood.  
  
"Aargh," Lancelot groaned, biting his lip to brace himself against the sting. "Guinevere, go. I do not need you." He turned from her, breathing heavily with effort and trying not to take notice of the tenderness in her concern.  
  
As she sat, her knees dug into the ground and his back to her, Guinevere could not relent despite his cold treatment that injured her soul. Hesitantly, she reached her feminine hand to his broad shoulder and said nothing, wanting him to know without words that she alone could help him now.  
  
Lancelot shrugged her hand away, and jumped up from the grass floor, spinning around to face her, his expression hostile. "Will you not desist? There is nothing you can do for me."  
  
"I can help, if you would simply let me! Lancelot, look at me. _Look at me_," Guinevere implored, allowing herself to show a softer side so few had ever seen.  
  
Slowly, Lancelot looked up at her from underneath his beautifully long eyelashes, his skin pale and drawn. Guinevere stepped closer to him, tilting her head sweetly, kindness emanating from her eyes. "You saved me. Yet you refuse to take my aid. I can save you." She knew once those words floated on her lips once again that she hadn't simply meant his physical self but that she could save the man within him, the man chained to the legend so desperate to be released. Guinevere thought she saw a flash of softness splash unto his handsome features and felt herself as though standing atop a cliff, merely waiting for the fall. Something was coming. It was shining in the trees, the stars, the wind.  
  
He pursed his lips and a moment of silence hung in the cold air between them before he spoke finally, his hands now bloodied as he clutched his injury. "I do not need to be saved. And if I did, it would most certainly not be by you. You are naught but a silly girl trying to show the courage and skill of a man. You carry only dreams, not reality!" he said cruelly, though his brow furrowed and flinched as he spoke.  
  
Guinevere felt a single tear slide down her pale cheek as she registered the harshness of his speech, feeling as though it was she who had been impaled by a sharp blade. Yet the air was still full of the unspoken and unfulfilled and Guinevere knew that now was her time for reckoning. For truth. She was not a broken woman torn apart by malicious words. She had been and was intent on remaining a fighter, determined to counter any foe who dare cross her path. "I have tired of your attitude. You are no more than me though you very well may be less. I have offered you assistance this night and this is not the first time you have shunned me. Why is it you detest me so?"  
  
Lancelot tried to speak in his defense but Guinevere held up her hand to quiet him. "I have no care for what you will say. I do not understand, Sir, why you impress upon myself your loathing for me one moment and than are as gentle and kind as any friend the next?!" she exclaimed heatedly, freeing herself of the burden of her endless thoughts on the matter.  
  
"Lady, I do not loathe you! Far from such a feeling in truth," Lancelot fired back at her, his nostrils flaring in infuriation. "But I need not of friends! Is it not enough that I have been imprisoned on this isle for 15 years fighting and yet continue to stay for the cause of your people!"  
  
"Answer me this then, Knight. Why do you stay if you find this land so insufferable, then? Why fight for something you care not for?" Guinevere demanded.  
  
Lancelot had reached his breaking point, his anger bursting from his once- calm disposition. "I do not fight for nothing! I fight FOR YOU!" he yelled at her through clenched teeth. Finally his frustration was now open to her furious eyes.  
  
_"It is my own fault. He is here for my quest."  
  
"No. He is here for something else."_  
  
Her conversation with Arthur haunted her as she realized the meaning of Lancelot's words, her lips faltering to respond and her eyes wide with bewilderment and sheer disbelief.  
  
"It has always been you and, more than death, I fear it will always be you. I stay for _you_, Guinevere," Lancelot continued in a quieter, sweeter voice, his eyes losing their untamed nature, finally at peace.  
  
She shook her head in astonishment, stumbling away from him and tripping over a hidden tree root, crumbling to the dewy grasses. Lancelot flew to her side, the pain from his wound forgotten as he looked down upon her, his eyes shining with a fire Guinevere had never seen in the eyes of a human. "Are you alright?" he inquired, scanning her face for signs of illness or injury, his hand at her forehead.  
  
Her eyes shone with confusion as she gazed at him, uncertain of herself, of him, of her path. With the answer to a simple question, it seemed as though everything had changed and could never, would never be the same again. Even the forest did not look the same to her, a brighter colour to the leaves and flowers, as though she was only now truly seeing its beauty. But why to her? It was he who had confessed and she had no truths of her own to make known.

_What is it you desire, then?_

_Do you not know?_

__  
Finally she was able to speak. "I don't understand. Never have you extended your hand in friendship to me. From the moment I met you, you looked down upon me, as though I was lesser than you and in no way fit for a man like Arthur."  
  
Lancelot bowed his head before lifting his deep, warm eyes to meet hers once again. "I suppose, it was my way of reconciling...what I felt. If I acted as though I detested you, perhaps in time I would learn to believe it. It was a fool's game that ended only in failure,"  
  
"And pain for me? Arthur has wanted us to be friends since the beginning and I chanced it but so many times. Do you know what it is to search for kindness and acceptance on a frozen lake, merely waiting for the ice to crack into a thousand pieces?" Guinevere retorted, anger flashing in her delicate eyes as she masked her shock with spite.  
  
Lancelot's face was suddenly caressed with pain at her harsh analogy to his person, growing paler. "It was never my intention to hurt you. Believe that if you believe nothing else."  
  
Guinevere felt her reserve begin to perish, his tenderness hard to bear so coldly. "Oh, but of Arthur, have we betrayed him by only speaking of such a thing?"  
  
He came to her quickly, his hands wielding her by her shoulders, an impassioned twinge in his eyes. "We are safe, Guinevere, _we are safe_...Never in all my days shall I ever betray Arthur, I would rather cede my life than commit such a crime. We are safe for it is I...the carrier of this...inconvienence, not you. As long as you feel not the same, all will be well. I have to believe that," Lancelot explained, trying to quell her worry as he sat back on the damp grass, his entire being drained of liveliness. Yet still he dared not say the words. Those fateful words that would cement his soul to hers without hope for a happy, enduring future for him; to say it would be to hang himself by her heart for eternity.  
  
Guinevere trembled still, her mind unsettled by his words...or lack of words, for that matter. He was right; her feelings did not match the level of his affection and was thus spared from the fearful feelings of betrayal and suffering that plagued Lancelot. But more importantly, what she had truly been afraid of was not and would not come to pass. For an instant, when his sincere feelings had been exposed to her, she'd truly believed that he indeed was the man Merlin had spoken of in that prophetic conversation that seemed ages upon her soul. But now, upon his spoken truths, Guinevere knew she had been mistaken. Lancelot held deep affection for her, that much had been implied. But love? Nay, he did not love her with the passion anticipated by Merlin's prophecy; he had not professed love nor had 'love' in its purest linguistic form ever grazed his lips.  
  
Why, then, rather than relief did Guinevere feel only a dull ache throb in deep within her, where Lancelot's affectionate gaze could not penetrate?  
  
"I bear this burden, Guinevere, not you," finished Lancelot, his hand placed over his heart, as thought it now aches him, his battle-wound forgotten.  
  
Tomorrow Guinevere and Lancelot would arrive at Kent, do their task and await Arthur's coming. What had passed between them o'er their travels would be but a fleeting memory for her and a delicate bruise for him. The present moment in all its glory was a final chance to reconcile the truths uncovered that night.  
  
She would not close herself entirely to a man so dejected and sad with care for her. Guinevere had not the cold heart for that. Slowly, she removed his armour, her lips silent as words were no longer of use to either one of them. She then pulled his shirt, the fabric light on her fingertips. She ran her hands from his firm jaw down his neck, her fingers then grazing down his down his hard chest, his muscles tensed. Guinevere betrayed the yearning and lust in her heart, and instead gently pressed the fabric to his wound, feeling her own fingers stained with his blood. She moved into the bend of his body, nestling her head on his bare chest and closing her eyes, seeking a peacefulness she feared she would never know again after this night. He too desired comfort, and rested his head upon her smooth neck, his eyes closed to reality as well.  
  
Finality.


	6. Time of Need

A/N: Sorry about the wait! Long chapter here. This chapter is kind of a go-between before the next 'plot point' if you will...so just endure it! The next chapter is fairly Lancelot-based so we'll get so more insight from him!

----

"Welcome to Kent, my lord Artorius," a townsman by the name of Milhad proclaimed, looking wonderously upon Arthur, whose nobility was obvious even atop an aged horse, the remnants of furious days of riding gathering on his worn face.

Gawain snorted, nodding his head towards his fellow warriors. "This is what we have come all this way for? A sad little fortification and villagers who have never toyed a sword in their hands?"

Bors laughed jovially, as Galahad gazed over the peasant crowd with interest, seeing much more with his youthful enthusiasm. To him, these people had greater strength than the largest Saxon army because of their passion for their cause that was evident even in their faces."

A young boy tugged at Gawain's hanging shirt tail, his eyebrows furrowed together. "'Scuse me, Sir, we might not be swordsmen like yourselves but we sure know how to use our bows!"

Tristan leaned low on his horse, grazing the top of his mane as he whispered loudly to the little child, "That is wise. Archery takes more skill!"

Bors narrowed his eyes, though a grin played upon his lips. "Never you mind boy, this one hear speaks in senseless riddles constantly. Stick with us here and we'll show you how to fight like a real man—sword and all! Why, I got myself a few nasty little monsters just like you," he said, slightly wistful for the children and woman he had left legions behind. Bors reached and patted the young boy's head, happily ruffling his dark hair into a matted mess.

"I think those bastards of yours have softened you, friend!" Gawain said, raising an eyebrow towards him.

Bors sat back in the saddle of his horse and pointed his finger accusingly at Gawain. "No one calls those little brutes 'bastards'! Except for me, that is!" He broke out into a loud chuckle, his eye's emanating the warmth that defined him, despite his protestations that he was a bloodthirsty warrior at heart.

Arthur smiled at the banter among his Knights, proud that they had not yet lost the spirit that fuelled their will to serve for a greater cause than simply themselves. He felt an even greater rush of pride sweep through him at the successful completion of the task he had set before his two most trusted, and beloved, friends. Despite his faith in Guinevere and Lancelot and his endless praying for the eternity of their good health, he quite expected to be barricaded from entering the citadel of Kent. But his prayers had been answered with good gracefulness, as his friends had reached their destination and persuaded the people of Kent to the worthy cause of ending the invasion of the Saxons.

Arthur trotted through the gates amid the cautious stares of the townspeople who both feared and respected his presence, as they realized he alone was the one who could unite the peoples of Briton to drive out the enemy that plagued them. He descended his horse, knowing he had to win the trust of the people of Kent himself in order for their fighting to be as impassioned as his was. Arthur swiftly gathered his Knights behind him, a rather imposing picture set in the minds of the village people as they glanced upon the strong-willed, valiant faces of the men who followed Arthur, and Arthur alone. Tristan, Bors, Dagonet, Gawain and Galahad stood flanking Arthur, their expressions firm, presenting an incredible vision of unity and strength to the villagers.

"People of Kent," He began, holding out his arms as to formally welcome them to the plight of all of the Isle. "I have sent before me two of my greatest friends who you have obviously welcomed into your haven. They have told you of my arrival and the reasons for it. But I ask you now, myself, here in this moment, for a task that will be neither easy nor a guaranteed success. I want to end the reign of fear and destruction the Saxons have set upon this land but I cannot go it alone. I ask for your aide in materials, in men, but above all in support and belief that we can make Britain a land of greatness once again, free of brutes more than willingly to burn all your villages and murder your families! You have every reason to shun me and shut your gates forever to my quest but I promise that should you good people stand behind me, I will endeavour to make Britain a place founded on true freedom and equality. I will break your chains!" Arthur bellowed fervently, throwing his glistening sword into the air. "What say you, people of Kent?"

The men of the village slowly left the sides of their families and stood before Arthur, no traces of fear touching their faces. Some were aged, having seen too many winters, while others had seen too few, their youthfulness radiating from their bright eyes. Nevertheless, all stared at Arthur with admiration, their hands slapping over their hearts, a symbol of allegiance.

"We will defeat them!" yelled Arthur, the rowdy cheers and roars of the crowd fuelling his confidence and energy. He left the courtyard of the village, his heart full with love for the people who had so willingly offered their faith to him as he walked, now eager to reunite with Guinevere and Lancelot, the two responsible for winning him this support. The other Knights too were most eager to meet again with one of their own, and thus complete their ring of friendship once again. "Guinevere? Lancelot? Where are they? I am most eager to see them," Arthur asked of Milhad, who was racing to keep pace with Arthur's broad strides.

Arthur stopped at the end of long corridor upon hearing nothing from Milhad, who had fallen behind and stood, cowering slightly. "Milhad?"

Milhad coughed, his eyes not daring to touch upon Arthur's. Bors lunged forward, a violent madness flashing in his eyes, and pushed the townsman against the cold wall, the man's face smashing against the rock. "Where are they?!"

Galahad ran forward, yanking Bors away from Milhad but unable to dispel the wild look on Bor's face. "Bors! Honestly, Vanora would have your tongue if she could see you now!"

Bors grunted, a tiny smile glowing on his reddened face at the mention of his lady. "I fear that woman more than any Saxon and that's the truth!"

"Milhad, tell me now what has happened!" demanded Arthur, his pulse quickening at the mere thought of a horrible fate befalling either of his fresh love, Guinevere, or old friend, Lancelot.

"My Lord, Lancelot has been gravely wounded. He is but holding to life by a thread," the townsmen explained grimly, feeling true pity for the noble man before him.

Galahad and Tristan dropped their eyes, their pleasant smiles cast from their face in place of solemn frowns. Dagonet said nothing but carefully trained his eyes upon Bors, calmly expecting an explosion from anger from an already-heated man who had begun passing between the walls. Gawain looked at Arthur, his mouth opening to speak but Arthur held up his hand to silence him, his face pained. Arthur swallowed, the news bearing down on him like a knife but refusing to settle in his consciousness. "Take me to him."

----

He found Guinevere huddled on the hard floor, her head resting in her arms upon the bed peacefully, her eyes and ears closed to all but the whispers in her dreams. Her long, silky hair framed her sleeping beauty of a face and her pink lips were parted ever so slight. Arthur felt the breath of life cease within for a moment at her pretty sight...until his eyes cast upon the reason for her being there. Upon the bed lay a still figure, cloaked in heavy blankets despite the warmth of the chamber. Arthur knew instantly it was Lancelot and that his friend was not well, as the stench of death hung threateningly in the ceiling.

Arthur walked slowly to the other side of the bed, bending atop his friend, his palms crashing together in a soft prayer. He placed his hand on Lancelot's forehead, feeling his friend's cool sweat press into his skin as he begged his God to spare this life, and to take his instead. Arthur recalled Lancelot's destiny spewed from his own lips.

_I will die in battle, of that I am certain._

"It is not yet your time, brother," he whispered, willing Lancelot to live. Guinevere stirred as he spoke, her eyes fluttering open, bestowing him the beautiful darks of her eyes.

"Arthur," she said softly, gazing at him for a brief moment, still sleepy, across Lancelot's immobile body. She raised herself on her elbows, glancing at Lancelot's peaceful face as she searched for signs of improvements in his condition. "He does not wake."

Arthur ran a rough hand along his tired face, a great regret settling within him as it always had when one of his men had been injured or killed. "The fever...has it taken him yet?"

"Yes," Guinevere replied distractedly, looking down at Lancelot so intently that it was though Arthur was not with her in the chamber. "He is so close..." She could not finish, brushing a hand across her eyes quickly.

"How did this happen?" inquired Arthur, wondering how his infallible Knight had been broken and also how Guinevere had come to show concern for a man she had disliked so recently.

Still, her gaze drifted not from Lancelot, her voice so gentle that Arthur strained to listen. "We were attacked...in the forest. Saxons. They had weapons I'd never before seen. We barely made it here before he collapsed..." Suddenly Guinevere looked up into his eyes, tears threatening to overflow unto her smooth, pale skin. Arthur was struck by this sight, seeing a softness in her he had never seen before, nor expected to see ever. He longed to pull her into his arms and smell her sweet hair and stroke away her worry but he could not. For Lancelot lay between them, a dark barrier that for some reason he felt he could not overcome or cross.

Arthur shook away his thoughts and smiled reassuringly at Guinevere. "He is young still. Death will not take him yet."

Guinevere repeated his words silently. _Death will not take him yet. Death will not take him yet._ If she willed them to destiny, the perhaps it would become a truth. She gently ran her fingers along her temples, growing more weary with every passing minute that she sat at Lancelot's motionless side. She had little of sleep or even waking rest since their arrival in Kent but she knew that even had she desired it, it would not come to her. Guinevere knew not what her heart had willed her to wait for but only that she hovered just above the realm of madness, her entire being threatened by Lancelot's stupor. _He must wake_. There were things left unsaid between them and Guinevere could not send him to a shallow grave without speaking her peace. Somehow Lancelot had linked their souls together, a link that death would not severe, but would pulse endlessly within Guinevere if all truths that lay between would remain sealed. "Arthur, Merlin. Where is he?" asked Guinevere suddenly, an idea settling itself in her path so that all else was of little importance to her now.

"He stays in the forest, just beyond the village here, keeping a watch for Saxon invaders," he explained, not yet realizing the meaning of her question. He too was unable to remove his gaze from Lancelot's sleeping form and its child-like grace. He had witnessed the deaths of many of his men, some friends, others simply a name but there were seven men whose fates dearly mattered to him. To lose one weighed greatly upon Arthur's conscience; these were his men, who had allowed him to guide them, command them, in a territory foreign to them for 15 years. And it was Lancelot's life now that was being gambled; Lancelot, his finest Knight but more so, his truest friend. They had kindred spirits, alike in so many ways that their differences were often outweighed and their ages meant little. The prospect of this loss pierced Arthur's very soul and muddled his thoughts.

Guinevere rose, a new hope invigorating her to livelihood, and moved to stand before her Arthur, her dark eyes looking up into his, silently begging him. "Arthur, you must send for him. Please. She lifted her hand to his cheek, her fingers making long, featherlike strokes along his weather-beaten skin. "I cannot tell you why," she answered the question he had dancing on his lips. "You must trust in me to help Lancelot."

Arthur pondered for a moment, the question of why Guinevere was so anxious to ensure Lancelot's life stayed upon this ground and no other flickering his mind as quick as a candle being blown out. He reached for Guinevere's hands and placed his comfortingly on top, feeling the delicate softness of her skin soothing his rougher, hardened hands. "There is little I would not trust you with, my Lady. I will do as you ask," he conceded, his dark eyes betraying a look of such unwarranted adoration and love that Guinevere cast down her own eyes, fearing she could not meet his passion.

"Barricade the door until you have returned," Guinevere requested, her voice low.

Arthur turned to leave, bowing his head customarily, worry lines still daunting his face. Guinevere caught his elbow and without pause, fell into his arms, nestling her head sweetly in the crook of his neck. Arthur felt her silky hair, glide over the sensitive skin of her neck as she clutched him tightly with her arms, whispering barely audibly, "Thank you. You are a good man, Arthur." Arthur blushed unknowingly to her, feeling pride in her high opinion of him and said nothing. But he did not know the impetus behind her words; they were true, yes, but Guinevere felt a guilt she knew not what for and as though she could not match his goodness or gracefulness in any way. It was as though she was making amends for a crime or injustice that she had not yet committed. _But you already have_, a small voice whispered within her. Guinevere cast it aside quickly, lacking the eagerness to pursue her conscience as she pulled away from Arthur and knelt back by Lancelot's side.

She did not look after Arthur's retreating figure, her thoughts once again consumed by Lancelot's state. She lay her head next to his and brushed her fingers along his hairline, feeling his soft curls move through them with ease. Slowly she lifted her body onto the bed, lay on her side and watching the sweetness that was Lancelot's sleep. The warmth of his body glowed unto her own shivering form, his steady breaths comforting her tension as she slowly matched his breathing patterns, feeling a sort of relaxation drift over her for the first time in days.

"Do you remember that day when Arthur saved me from that horrible little cage and certain death? When I first met him? And you. And the others? For eternity, I lay within those bars, certain that if I was not tortured to death then I would die by starvation. I had accepted my destiny and was willing and content to die. But Arthur came. I saw his noble face, those eyes of his so full of concern and heard that strong voice of his command my freedom. You know all this, Lancelot, as you were there. But there is something you do not know. I saw...I saw you first, before I ever set eyes upon Arthur, I saw this face," she told him softly, her fingers running along the smooth bone of his cheek, the slightest tingle jumping into her own skin. "You saw me too, before Arthur, but you did not draw near. Why?" she whispered, knowing it was a question that would remain unanswered, at least for a time. "It matters not, I suppose. But you must know that it was _your_ face that brought a glimmer back into my life. A hope. In your eyes, I saw my own freedom, my life. And I shall never forget it, Lancelot, I promise." She laid her lips upon his cool forehead, daring not to touch his still-warm lips and then rested her head on his chest, over his heart, the faint but consistent beats beautiful sounds to her.

Guinevere heard sounds of heavy footsteps and slid quickly back to the floor, her cheeks colouring unstoppably. Again, she felt as though she done wrong. Wronged Arthur. She knew without looking that Merlin had entered the chamber, just from the lightness in the air and the sense of magic that enveloped his body. He stood in the doorway, offering no greeting but nor did Guinevere welcome him.

"I know why you have asked me here." Merlin's voice was haggard, heavy with the weariness of many battles fought.

"And yet you do not move," she observed dryly, turning finally to meet his eyes, her skin stretched across her face in consequence of her seemingly never-ending awakened state.

Merlin's glittering eyes peered into her, searching to affirm the thoughts he anticipated she carried. "I cannot, Guinevere," he answered her unspoken desire, his expression softening towards the girl he had reared since her first breath.

"Merlin, you must spare his life," Guinevere appealed finally in a breathy voice, the madness again returning to her eyes. "It is not a request."

"Guinevere, I am a healer but I carry no certainty. My gifts have limits," replied Merlin, tranquilly, his hands folded together.

Anger flicked across her pale face as she rose rapidly, her youthful, toned figure looming over his brittle, shrunken one. "That is a lie. You have breathed life time and again into many of ours who lingered on the brink of death. There is a reason why you will not help Lancelot and I demand to know it!"

Merlin lifted a frail, bony hand to Guinevere's dark head, stroking her soft hair. "Child, do you not think I have wisdom?"

Guinevere backed away, rejecting his kindness though it caused to pain to flinch from the man who had raised her. "If wisdom is letting a good and worthy man die, then you have it!"

A great suffering then appeared upon Merlin, as though she had attacked him physically, and he struggled to settle into a chair. Guinevere reached her arm to aid him, her anger dissipated as she knelt before him, her eyes speaking the apologies she could not.

Merlin gazed at Lancelot and then back to Guinevere, an unknown expression on his face. "It might...might be easier if this life was forfeit," he suggested carefully.

She knew not of his meaning and shook her head sadly. "No, Lancelot is deeply loved by Arthur and the others. It would greatly dishearten their spirits to lose him. It is for Arthur I request this," she lied; it was not for him alone.

Merlin said nothing but sat quietly, his mind crowded with intertwining thoughts. At long last, he coughed and found the courage to speak. "I will heal him, Guinevere, but you must know, that it is against my own counsel that I do this. I fear that saving him will do unto you all more pain that good."

Guinevere flung her head into his lap, so thankful that she did not take heed of his warning, and then stood again, knowing that she must leave Merlin to summon his gifts in peace. "Merlin?" She paused at the door, sensing he had something more to say.

"Be cautious, child. I have given you all the warning I can. And remember that denying the truth has the potential to be more damning than any lie." He turned his back to her, hovering over Lancelot, his lips already mastering the spells that would save the young man's life.

She left the chamber, her skirts rustling about her. Merlin's words had been clear but she lacked the one piece that would make everything mysterious known to her.

What was missing?

----

Later that evening, Guinevere gazed out the window, captivated by the hard rain that beat down upon the walls of the fort as her mind rolled with the booming thunder. She spun around, hearing a sudden rustling sound and found herself staring into the sleepy eyes of Lancelot.

"You have awoken," Guinevere said, smiling down at Lancelot's confused face, his handsomeness still evident despite his ill state. "Are you as thorough at everything or is it just pertaining to injury?" she teased, feeling a lightening upon her soul with his awakening.

Lancelot blinked, glaring at her uncertainly. "I don't remember...what happen--," He broke off as he reached for the cup of spring water on the beside table, cringing excruciatingly. "Ah, I remember now. It's all becoming _painfully_ clear."

Guinevere swatted away his hand and took the cup in her own hands, bringing it to his lips. He drank thirstily, wiping his mouth once finished and looking at her inquisitively, the chamber foreign to his eyes. "We are in Kent...how long have I been asleep? Oh, my head aches."

She pressed a damp cloth to his forehead, brushing his dark hair back. "It has been days. And your ache is from the herbs Merlin gave but do not fear, it will wear off in a little while."

Lancelot's eyes widened and he jumped up to a sitting position, casting the warming blanket that had lain on him to the floor. "Merlin? The Dark Wizard?" Stories of the warrior-wizard had often been passed on around campfires, tales of sorcery, spells, and curses characterizing Merlin as a frightening beacon of magic who had the power to turn battles with just a simple incantation.

"You know others, Sir? And he is no master of the dark arts, I assure you. His aid was enlisted so that you would live. You owe him your thanks!" chastised Guinevere, defending the man who had fought against his own will to do what she had begged. But she was still gentle with Lancelot, her usual coolness gone as she tended to him, caring for him as she had never for any of her own people.

"Still arguing, I see! Careful, Lady, you will force me back into slumber," he jested, his eyes twinkling with cleverness. "Who sent for him? I daresay Arthur himself would have dragged old Merlin here to heal me!" Lancelot surmised, his mouth half-lifted in a grin.

"I did. Does that surprise you?" Guinevere questioned boldly, forcing herself not to gaze at his bronzed, muscular chest in fear that he would notice.

Lancelot cocked his head, greatly enjoying this playful encounter. "Not in the slightest. With whom would you spar were I not around? Arthur would not have you!"

Guinevere balked, her mouth opening at his retort. "And yet you would!" she responded carelessly, her lips moving faster than her mind. One look at Lancelot's pretty head, bowed, and Guinevere knew she had spoken too quickly, opening wounds that both had hoped had been sealed forever. _Yet_, her conscience whispered, _did you not desire to say something to him if he awoke? To tell him the truth and to hear it from him as well?_ "Lancelot, I--,"

"No," he interrupted brusquely, leaning back and closing his eyes, secretly hoping that she would have disappeared by the time he reopened them. Her presence only weakened his determination to remain loyal to Arthur."What is done is done. We have made our peace, Guinevere."

Guinevere bit her lip nervously, waiting for that ideal moment, one she was not certain even existed. But it was not to come. Sighing, she stood to leave him, assured now of his good health and realizing there was no other reason for her to stay. Unexpectedly his fingers caught her wrist, his dark eyes gripping her soul, nearly tearing everything previously left unsaid from her. She felt nothing but the heat from his hand course through her body and became aware that he was very nearly naked, his toned body gleaming to her. Once again, she felt a raw urge surge through her, awakening all her senses to her needs, wants...sexuality. Guinevere was frightened, knowing that she had very little control over her own self now and was more than willing to give herself over to his warm hands. _No_.

"Why are you here?" Lancelot prodded, his voice nearly a whisper as he felt his resolve to send her away crumble.

There it was. The moment she had awaited. It was time, now, for honesty. Her lips quivered as she struggled to find the right words, losing her concentration as she glanced at his face, so full of care and longing that it was hard to bear. "There is something you--,"

"May Arthur be protected and blessed," voices cried from the courtyard, causing both Guinevere and Lancelot to cease all movement. They were trapped in time, layers of guilt and betrayal covering them. Guinevere looked out the window, a small smile drifting across her face as she watched Arthur patiently show a child how to wield a sword in the proper fashion. _Arthur_.

"Will you send Arthur and the others up, I would greatly like to be reunited," Lancelot said gruffly, knowing as she did that their private thoughts would remain their own respectively. There was no room for truth between them.

"Yes, of course." Guinevere had a sudden desire to leave his daunting presence, as he made her nervous and unnervingly exposed.

"Guinevere, I thank you," added Lancelot as she opened the door to leave, his tone heavy with solemnity. She knew instinctively that behind those uncomplicated words of thanks lay a thousand others that could not be said.

She forced a comforting smile on her lips and simply bade him to be well. It was all she could offer him.

----

Lancelot listened to the door bang open, expecting to see his friends barging in, half-drunk and smelling like the lot of pigs they were. "Finally! I nearly died just from waiting for you—," his amused voice faltered as he found himself surprisingly not looking unto the red faces of his fellow Knights but rather, the bent, bearded figure of Merlin.

"Guinevere has told me of your recovery," Merlin said evenly, his eyes hidden behind their dark pools of colour.

Lancelot coughed, feeling an unnatural intimidation by his presence. "Yes."

"You will serve Arthur well. There is glory in your future," Merlin replied prophetically, his voice still emotionless as he stood firm, despite his weathered body.

"I do not--," Lancelot began, uncertain of how to respond. He had a sense that Merlin knew of what had passed between Guinevere and himself without ever being present or even informed by the Lady.

"But there can be no Guinevere in your fate," Merlin interjected, a passion now flashing in his eyes as he spoke of the girl, and now woman, whom he had cherished all her life. "She is for another."

"Yes." Lancelot could not bring his eyes to Merlin, his strength seeping from him as he felt as insecure and small as he had during boyhood.

"I have saved your life and now I ask something of you in return."

Lancelot tilted his head, still not meeting Merlin's overwhelming gaze directly. "Then so be it, I suppose. I owe you that at least."

Merlin did not hesitate to make his request. Now was not the time for niceties. "You must promise to stay yourself from Guinevere. Be a friend, yes, but no more than that can you bid of her."

The Knight clasped his hands tightly together, finally looking into Merlin's eyes. There he saw pain, suffering...and bloodshed, all consequences of the path on which Lancelot had been steadily walking. Lancelot knew then that he must sacrifice his own selfish desires for the sack of the others involved. For Guinevere. For Arthur. For the Quest. "I will do as you wish." He would willingly cause no pain for anyone else and decided then that he would bear his angst in silence, knowing he had been mistaken in allowing his frustration to overtake his sensibility when he had confessed to Guinevere of her true importance to him.

Merlin left to him to his thoughts, saying no more and moving so quietly it was as though he floated on air. Lancelot's desired visitors came finally but he found himself no longer able to be jovial, his mind resigned to what he had just lost.

Or never had to begin with.


	7. I Will Find Her

A/N: Sorry about the looooong wait!! Lots of background stuff here. I've once again had to split my chapters as when they were combined, it was just too long. So expect another update from me in the near future! Thanks for reading!

-----

Guinevere breathed in the fresh air, so full of promise and anticipation as she galloped back within the walls of Kent. She loved the freedom of being unbound, away from the reality of wars and blood that awaited her, and having her own will to do as she pleased. Guinevere trotted through the open gates, surprised to see Arthur and his Knights preparing their horses for traveling. "Arthur?" she called out, jumping easily from her horse and handing the reins to a young boy she had enlisted to be her horse-master. "Where is it you go?" She did not look at him when she spoke, her eyes instinctively wandering for Lancelot, who stood not with the others. _Do not look for him_, she scolded herself.

"There are Saxons, a small group, I think approaching these walls and we ride out to meet them. It will be a small battle, which is why I saw no need to confer with Merlin. Your people need not fight this day," Arthur explained, his eyes only trained on her, flecked with gold.

"So be it," Guinevere replied absently, straightening her cloak. "Where is Lancelot? Does he still recover and thus cannot fight?" She was well aware that if Lancelot did not go, she might be unable to stay herself from him. Though she had kept her distance, as of late, it had not been an easy battle and often in the middle of the night, she found herself dreaming of him, even his name, and reaching out for a figure that lay not beside her.

Arthur shook his head, grinning. "I do not know. Last I saw, he was being escorted by his admirers to the dining hall!"

"What do you mean?" she asked, her brow furrowing together in confusion. But there was no need for an answer as Lancelot emerged into the courtyard, carrying his swords. But he was not alone. Women clothed in brightly dyed, low-cut gowns floated after him, encircling him with their womanly spells, blushing and giggling like idiotic fools. Guinevere watched disdainfully as one young girl, not more than sixteen, deliberately let her handkerchief fall to the ground, her bright eyes looking up at Lancelot from under long, dark eyelashes. Lancelot bent easily and returned it to the girl with a smile, his charm overwhelming her so that she turned more red than the darkest blood. Guinevere could see that Lancelot was well aware of his effect on them and even encouraged it by tilting his head flirtatiously and flashing them the brilliant grins they sought. "Despicable!" Guinevere hissed under her breath, so that Arthur would not wonder at her words.

"Hey, Lancelot. Spare them their hearts!" Galahad yelled, laughter flooding his voice.

Bors snickered, climbing atop his horse, content that the camaraderie of the Knights was as humourous as ever. "I'm in agreement with Galahad here! I'm sure you've got enough bastards running around this land!"

Lancelot rolled his eyes and moistened his lips with his tongue. "Some of which you _think_ you've fathered," he retorted, his dark eyes lightening in the sunlight. Colour rose in Bors' already ruddy skin and Lancelot quickly calmed his annoyance. "Rest assured, Bors, I have no child!" He glanced around the chuckling crowd, his gaze finally noticing Guinevere's unsmiling face, standing closely by Arthur. His smile faltered and his eyes greyed so slightly that only she knew the sight of her saddened him, stealing the few precious moments of cheerfulness in this battlefield that was his life.

Gawain clapped Lancelot hard on the back, tossing a rolled-up blanket into his arms. "Good to have you back!" Gawaine jumped upon his horse and rounded up the other Knights around him, who all looked to Arthur for instruction.

"Knights, we leave now," Arthur announced, his strong voice booming across the courtyard, instilling a sense of reassurance in the people listening with just the confidence he exuded.

Guinevere neither saw nor heard anything apart from the fawning sighs and whispers of Lancelot's admirers, her own skin growing heated as they daintly laid their fingers on his arm and brushed away the beautiful dark curls falling onto his forehead.

"Guinevere?" Arthur's kind voice rang in her ears, as she suddenly felt the pressure of his hand on her shoulder, slowly turning her from Lancelot.

"Yes?" she answered quietly, her eyes searching Arthur for...for something she did not know she was looking for.

Arthur raised his hand to her cheek, stroking the smooth, pink skin that lay there and leaned forward, as though he meant to bestow a kiss upon her. Looking beyond his broad shoulders, she caught a pair of intensely dark eyes focusing on her. Lancelot. Guinevere bowed her head and he pulled away, trying to shield the hurt in his eyes and confused at her behaviour. She smiled up at Arthur and her sweet mouth banished any doubts he had in his mind, as he believed she was not yet ready to determine the course of their feelings and nothing more.

Again, her gaze drifted from Arthur to Lancelot, unable to take her sight from him as he stalked from the courtyard, calling to the other Knights that he had left something behind. "We will be reunited soon," Guinevere said quickly, her mind already following Lancelot.

"Yes, Lady." He kissed her forehead and rather than feeling content as she knew she ought to, Guinevere felt slightly bitter. Why must they dance the goodbye song? Why was it that he was to leave to fight for a cause she herself had fought for years, before she even heard his name? It was not simply his battle. She was a fighter as well as he. Why must she play the virtuous maiden, eagerly awaiting the return of her courageous love. _Her love_. _No_, she realized as she watched Arthur's eyes look at her with such glorious affection, _she did not love him_. Perhaps, she would love him in time, but if his way to win her heart was to push her to the sidelines of battle, he would have a greater fight on his hands. Alas, she would stay back this time but not again would he expect her to be idle during these hellish times. She brought her hand to his cheek, her eyes speaking the goodbye her lips did not and hurried quickly into the fortress, her mind having left Arthur already.

----

Lancelot lifted the skirts of his bed, his eyes scanning the floor in a flurry. Hitting the top of the bedsheets frustratedly, he sat for a moment, trying to figure where he had last seen it.

"Lance, perhaps if you tell us what it is you seek, we may help you find it!" one of the ladies that had followed him said suggestively, leaning down to him, the bodice of her gown unnaturally tight and exposing. He looked away from the woman's pretty flesh, blushing, not for his own embarrassment but for her and the obviousness of her overtures. Despite his arrogant speeches and dazzling effect on women, Lancelot felt neither comfortable nor confident around the fairer sex since..._her_. Guinevere was unlike any other woman Lancelot had met, so fiery, so willing to do what was generally accepted as a man's honour. She was interesting and biting, neither silly nor boring as the ladies such as those now upon him, who entreated his affections. He shook his head, warding off his treasonous thoughts, as he stood up quickly and gallantly offered a hand to the lady.

"You seem better," a voice called. Guinevere leaned against the doorway, sternly eyeing the fair ladies waiting upon him, their own eyes glazed with lust and adoration as they fluttered around him silently, trying to not obstruct his way. Guinevere did not hesitate from boldly entering into his chamber unannounced. "Is it this you look for?" She held in her hands a small item, a tiny creature's furry foot it appeared to be. Lancelot gazed grimly at her and reached for it, but Guinevere lifted it from his reach, raising her eyebrows.

Lancelot, in turn, lifted his eyebrows, the corners of lips turning up into a smile. "Leave me." The ladies hurried from the room, content to have been addressed by the noble, handsome Knight, no matter his words. "I am well, thank you," he said to Guinevere, their eyes linking playfully.

"Obviously." She handed him his trinket slowly, the slightest touch of his fingertips on her hand sending shivers along every surface of her body. "Do you think it wise to return to battle so soon?"

"Fear I will not return?"

"No," Guinevere replied, but a smile danced across her lips. "Men like you always return to their women, who wait for them idlely, washing shirts and breeches, while their men are bloodied and beaten." Unintentionally, bitterness had edged her words.

Lancelot laughed heartily, placing his lucky charm safely in his pocket. "Had I a wife, I would be just as pleased if she could wield a sword as well as she would wield a bar of soap. Defense is as much a tactic as offense." Guinevere looked at him then, wondering if some sorcery had allowed him to read her thoughts. Or could it be no work of magic, but simply the had a more true understanding of her than even Arthur? "Ah, but all this talk is meaningless, as I have no wife, nor any women at all."

Guinevere looked towards the door, her ears still taut to the chattering sounds of young women. "No. You are right. Those were no women. They have not the mind to be women."

"You insult them? Why?"

"You deserve at least someone who can understand the demand, "Where is my sword?" Guinevere retorted lightly.

Lancelot teeth glowed white as he grinned, laugh lines forming beautifully around his mouth. "You forget. I have more than one. She will have to be able count."

"Ah, a worthy skill," Guinevere said, laughing. She could not remember the last time she had felt so free in speech and so uninhibited by protocol since she'd met Arthur.

Lancelot lifted his eyes, surprised to see Merlin drifting past the open door, looking at them for the quickest of instants.

_You must promise to stay yourself from her._

His promise to Merlin came crashing down on him, as he watched his close, light-hearted moment with Guinevere shatter. "I must go."

Guinevere was startled by his sudden rush to be away from her and looked on confusedly as he quickly passed by her. "Lancelot?" she asked faintly, feeling again that sense of weakness that passed over her when she was in his presence.

"I must go," he repeated, his voice low and his troubled eyes averting her bewildered stare.

She shook her shoulders, her face set angrily. "Oh! At one time, you were harsh to me. Now, you try to evade yourself from my presence. Which is it?" It was her firm belief that she had tolerated more than her fair share of his indecisive, cruel behaviour and despite her sensitivity to him, she was nearing her wit's end.

"What else would you have me do, Lady?" There was no anger in his tone, only an embittered sorrow as he stood at the door, his back to her.

Guinevere wrung hands in anguish, uncertain of how to respond and greatly exasperated by his coincidentally constantly inconsistent behaviour. In all her life, she had always held a distanced position from men and women alike and in doing so, had maintained a certain degree of power and earned the respect of her elders. Now, she could not manage to detach herself from him and felt everything he felt, from his pain to his anger. Yet, though she was greatly irritated by his deplorable behaviour, she found herself wanting to do nothing more than press herself against his hardened back and comfort him. Guinevere exhaled, frightened at the bipolar nature of her own mind, and threw her hands in the air, stalking past him and from the chamber. "You drive me mad!"

Lancelot smiled bitterly, her thoughts echoing her spoken sentiments. She drove him mad as well, but it was a madness he welcomed, a reprieve from the battlefield that composed his existence. As he walked back to the courtyard, he recalled the day he'd first fatally set his eyes upon her, his heart lost at that exact moment. It was neither something he welcomed nor expected and he wished to the Gods that he had never looked upon her face that day when they had got to collect Marius and his son. Lancelot had never spoken of this to Arthur, but it was he who had seen her paled face and enlarged eyes but inches from death first. Though, it was his instinct to free her, he'd felt frozen and left it to Arthur's doing, the bars between them symbolic of a greater obstacle between them. And so it was Arthur and his pure goodness that had one Guinevere's heart while he had been forced to suffer the violent pangs of attraction. He'd never desired to become close with any woman, he remembered as he climbed atop his horse, patting his mane encouragingly, it was something for the feeble-minded, he'd always believed. And thus when it came, he was set off-balance by a passion not just for a body, but for another's mind, heart, and soul. Lancelot knew not exactly why he cared for Guinevere. She was stubborn and strong-willed, traits known to be unseemly for a woman, and she had more skill with a bow than he could ever hope. _Actually_, he thought, smiling wryly, _those are exactly the reasons_.

----

"Melegrant and his henchman have been here. They leave us this token of scorched earth," Gawain announced crossly, angered that they had again missed their chance to come to battle with the man and his followers.

"I would that we would meet him finally and I could set my sword upon him," Arthur said, his horse coming alongside Gawain's.

Tristan, who had ridden a little ahead of the others, looked back at Arthur pensively, a lock of dark hair shielding part of his face. "No... Lancelot who will be the one to kill Meleagrant."

Bors laughed, slapping his knee. "See we have no need of Merlin. We have our own sorcerer right here!"

Only Tristan and Lancelot did not laugh, their eyes connecting in a knowing bond. Lancelot, for no reason at all, knew Tristan spoke the truth and did not make light of it. "If I should be so lucky," he said softly, wondering when this destiny would settle upon him.

Meleagrant was a man of the Old blood, who claimed a right to lead the Britons in place of Arthur, a Roman. But his way was neither benevolent nor kindly persuasive as those that refused to stand with him were killed, their wives and daughters raped, and their villages burned to nothing. Meleagrant, it was said, desired to end the torments of the Saxons, as Arthur did, but the difference between them was that Meleagrant would rule with an iron fist over the people of the Isle while Arthur wanted to foster a culture based on freedom and equality. Reports been spread across the country that Meleagrant desired to battle Arthur for the great throne of leadership but that he waited until he had an army that could crush any support Arthur could possibly have. Arthur had confided in his Knights that he did not expect to ever battle Meleagrant, a true coward, and he had been right so far as Meleagrant persisted with 'diplomatic' efforts to force Arthur's hand in ceding his power, to no avail.

Nonetheless, Lancelot thought as he looked at the dead soils and charred trees, Meleagrant was a force that needed to be reckoned with sooner or later. Lancelot was no leader, he had not the mindset or the charisma to ever be one nor did he truly desire it, but he was intuitive enough to know that all of Briton should be united against the Saxons and not fighting against one another.

"We will camp here tonight. I expect the Saxons are not much further off," Arthur commanded, resting close to the ground, his fingers running through the hardened dirt that had once been soil. "We should be a united land," he murmured, his words echoing the thoughts Lancelot had not dared to express.

Snowflakes slowly swirled around the Knights has they prepared a small fire and took some rest, the land increasingly becoming dotted with an icy whiteness. Lancelot ate little, his mind preoccupied as it usually was these days and sat a short way's off from the others, eager to have some semblance of peace. Though he loved his dear friends, he could not share all with them as he once would have. He kept a secret now, one that burdened on him like the cross the Roman priests said Christ had born to his death. But Lancelot knew also that he kept a secret not only from his fellow Knights and brothers, but from himself. He denied the truth, hoping it would allow him a path away from this madness. Though, truly, there was no refuge for him. Guinevere went with him always, her defiant chin encouraging his sword in battle and her enrapturing eyes keeping him sleepless.

The wind howled ominously as the snow continued to bind itself to the bare tree branches, the sky gray and stormy. "Tristan," Lancelot welcomed softly, sensing the other Knight's presence without looking.

"You were gifted with that sense, do you know that?" Tristan asked wryly, pulling his cloak around him for warmth.

Lancelot smiled, looking down at the snow-covered ground. "No. We all have our gifts."

Tristan looked pensively at the evergreen trees blossoming with snowflakes. "I suppose I would have to say mine is foresight. I can see far beyond what others do."

"And that, my friend, is why you are navigator!" Lancelot laughed, placing his hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Nay, the rest of you are just too stupid to know north from south!" jested Tristan, a smile not quite reaching his eyes. "I can see often what others are blind to. I think all men sometimes cannot help but shield their eyes from what they do not want to see. Hide behind a lie."

Lancelot bit his lip, his mind processing Tristan's philosophical speech, knowing what insinuations were being made. "Sometimes it is the lie that allows the life to continue."

"But then it is not really a life at all, now is it." Tristan rubbed his beard and glanced sidelong at his friend, his eyes sympathetic but stern. "You deny the truth to both yourself and to her but it cannot go on regardless and you do right to take leave of her, if you will not speak of it to Arthur," he acceded calmly, being neither entirely specific nor entirely vague, as was his custom. He rose, tussling Lancelot's hair as he turned back to the rest of the camp, leaving Lancelot alone to deal with his own demons.

There was worry running through his veins as he ran his hands along his cold face, the warmth jolting him from restlessness. If Tristan knew, then did the others know as well? Did Arthur know? _No_, he reasoned inwardly, _you have given them no motive to suspect that you care for Guinevere as Arthur does and you know that is Tristan's way_. Still the thought of betraying the open, honest relationship he held with Arthur plagued him, though he was aware that never could he find the words to tell his friend and commander. That is why a tiny hope burned still within him, that his feelings for Guinevere would pass with the seasons and he would come to see her only as a leader of the Old People and Arthur's chosen love. Part of him faithfully believed that such a thing was possibly yet, as long as he said not the words that would tie them together with no hope of ever being severed.

Then there was the rational part of him that could understand why could not extricate himself from caring for her. He was not, nor had he ever been, a particularly sentimental man when it came to women. A fighter first, romantic relationships, aside from gratification, had always mean little to him and never had he desired to be particularly close with anyone, aside from his fellow Knights. Lancelot supposed that was why he had been so taken off guard by the sheer velocity of his feelings, something as simple as her sweet scent having the ability to cause him to lose focus.

Lancelot tore his stale bread into pieces, scattering them absently onto the snow-covered ground, the cold beginning to tear at the tender skin of his cheeks. Sighing, he struggled to remember, as he did time and again, why her. Why Guinevere? It was true that she was beautiful but Lancelot's eyes were accustomed to pretty ladies and it was not as though she had been overtly kind to him. In fact, from the moment they'd met, they had battled for Arthur's affection and respect, carrying opposing goals and barely acknowledging the other. Lancelot had wanted to leave this land as soon as his papers were due and he'd struggled with Arthur to realize that to stay would only bring about the self-destruction of all of them. Guinevere, meanwhile, had plotted to keep Arthur in Britain, knowing that he alone could unite the Isle to greatness against the Saxons. She had won but Lancelot, by then, had fallen too under her spell and wanted no longer to leave, though Britain would never be his true home. Secretly, he admired her strength and determination, those qualities being so uncommon in women, most of whom sought simply for a husband and family for their fulfillment. Guinevere, however, held her own ambitions—to see her land free from the evil foreigners—and was tied to no man. It was Arthur who was tied to her.

And himself.

Lancelot stood up abruptly and returned to his fellow Knights, chasing away the workings of his confused mind, now finally understanding why he had not allowed himself the complications of concerning himself with matters other than battle. His only focus could be, had to be how best to serve his purpose as a warrior.

----

The Knights descended their horses once they had galloped past the inner gates of the city of Kent, the small group of rebellious Saxons having been defeated easily enough within two days, some even surrendering to Arthur's leadership. All of them yearned for someone to heartily embrace them and be glad of their return. It was true that each Knight had admirers and well-wishers but none save Arthur had a love or family to welcome them. Lancelot hurried away within the walls of the fortress, his dark eyes focused ahead, though it was a challenge as his gaze naturally sought for a slender body, made more beautiful by long, shining hair and dark, blazing eyes. _Guinevere_. He knew it would be no more than punishment to himself if he was forced to endure the warm embrace Guinevere was sure to welcome Arthur with. Bors grasped his hands together, feeling a sudden longing for Vanora and his children; to feel their warm bodies pressed against him happily and screaming amongst eachother would be a gift like no other. Dagonet clasped Bors shoulder in silent understanding as young Lucan huddled around the usually aloof Knight's leg. Gawain and Galahad busied themselves from their loneliness by charming a few beautiful young village women to bring them refreshment and sat at a long, wooden table off the courtyard, watching the growing crowd with slightly sad looks in their eyes. Tristan was neither sad nor content, knowing that love was a danger that could harm him more fatally than any sword, yet he patiently awaited the woman who would turn his heart, having dreamt of a maiden named Iseult too many times for her image to be nothing to him.

Arthur, too, awaited his love, his anxiously searching for Guinevere amongst the faces of the villagers. He had expected her to be there and a flicker of concern flushed through him as he was ushered into the dining hall, no word of her being spoken at all. Goblets were raised to his safe return by the officials of Kent and rich foods were set about him for his pleasure and that of his faithful Knights. But Arthur had no interest in feasting, his anger growing as all present abstained from mentioning Guinevere, who he had left, without her knowledge, in the charge of several of his younger Knights, too inexperienced to go on missions with the other Companions, but old enough to ensure the safety of a simple woman. Why had no one dared mention her?

"Guinevere, where is she?" Arthur barked, his worry manifesting itself through anger.

The young Knights, fearful of Arthur's wrath, looked at one another before gazing down at the floor as they spoke. "Sir...Meleagrant, well..."

"Out with it!" Arthur demanded, pounding his fist on the table.

The men jumped back at his lashing. "My lord, they have taken her."

Arthur felt as though he had been clobbered, his heart wailing in his chest. "What?"

Milhad stepped forward. "Sir, men came to the gates, telling of a man of the Lady's people...a Merlin, I think it was, who had taken ill and needed of her aide privately. Your Lady went, where she was deceived, as it was Meleagrant's men in disguise."

"You let her...alone, I-I do not..." Arthur broke off, crumbling dejectedly in a chair at the table, his head in his hands. Not her. Never her. It seemed that with his new quest, he was endangering the lives of the very people he sought to protect. If she was lost, it was on his shoulders alone, and no fault of the youthful Knights he had stupidly entreated to protect her. Arthur grew more lost in his pitiful thought, not noticing a new face entering the chamber. Lancelot burst through the door, his dark eyes full of wildness and his skin pink with heat. He went to Arthur's side, his face pointedly questioning. "She has been taken?"

"So it seems," Arthur said, his tone barely audible. "I expect she is being held as ransom. If I refuse to cede the leadership, he will kill her. And if I do, this land will be ruined by Meleagrant's greediness and the Saxons will overrun it! Besides, he would with certainty kill her anyway, for spite." He folded his hands together and looked up at Lancelot, his eyes showing the desperation of a man broken into making a decision with an undeniable impact. "I cannot give way to Meleagrant," Arthur declared unwaveringly. But his hand gripped Lancelot's arm imploringly, as he spoke through clenched teeth, "But I cannot lead she whom I care for to death! What am I to do? Tell me, you who knows me best, who has fought alongside me for 15 years!"

Lancelot had not a pause for thought in his mind. There was no choice for him, only a will, unlike Arthur. "I will go for her. It is true, Arthur, that you cannot save her without jeopardizing all we have fought for."

Arthur nodded in agreement, his thoughts dazed as fear for Guinevere gripped him, the consoling whispers of Milhad and his other Knights falling on deaf ears. "Will you take reinforcements with you, Lancelot? After all, you have only just recently healed?"

Lancelot smiled, admirable of Arthur's kingly ability to cast aside his own worries for the sake of the good safety of his friends. "Arthur, I am fully healed now. And I shall go alone. Malagant will notice an entourage of men, surely. You must trust me to do this alone," he answered seriously, his steely determination revealing itself. "I will bring her back...back to you, brother," he added, feeling the blush of a liar spread across his cheek. He could say it time and again to try and make the words honest, but he knew he would bring Guinevere back, only to appease his own selfish desire to keep his heart whole.

And so Lancelot galloped alone from the safe walls of Kent, images of Guinevere and the last harsh words they had spoken flooding his mind. He vowed then that if he could save her this time, then he would return her to Arthur honourably and never again think upon her as anything other than the beloved of his greatest friend.


	8. Two Side of the Same Sword

A/N: Wow, another long chapter—not my intention, I swear. But I just got writing one night and I literally wrote most of it at one sitting. Everything just flowed. This, I think, is my favorite chapter so far and I hope you all enjoy reading it as I did writing it! R & R pleeeease!

* * *

_Her gown was white, simple but purely clean, and she kept still her dagger in its sheath at her side. A warrior first, always. She smiled at the ladies waiting on her who carefully fitted a veil atop her shining dark hair, worn beautifully loose and then bade them to be away. This day she would be wedded to a great man whom she loved. Guinevere opened the door to her chamber, and made her way through the winding halls of the fortress, biting her lip nervously as she saw Lancelot, waiting for her by the gates, looking as broodingly handsome as ever, his dark hair freshly washed and his clothing new and becoming._

_"It is bad fortune to see the bride in her bridal dress, I have heard!" Guinevere chastised, happy at his dazed expression as he looked over her, his eyes lingering on her pretty face._

"_We need not worry of _that_, you know this. Besides...," he said, granting her a mischievous grin as he held out his arm, "you know I believe not in such silly things! Even if I am a pagan!" She took his arm as they walked out to the mystical forests that lay near Hadrian's Wall._

"_How is it you can be so lighthearted on this day?"_

_Lancelot looked away from her and Guinevere wondered what thoughts haunted his mind. Love? Betrayal? Honour...or dishonour for that matter? "We cannot change our fates, Guinevere. We must live our lives as best we can in the manner we are dealt."_

"_Why, Lancelot, you sound almost a Christian!" Guinevere jested, hoping to lighten the atmosphere between them. They need not speak so philosophically on this day of all days._

_Again that playful smile crossed his face, though his eyes still held a sad look in them. "Never." As they approached the clearing, they could see through the swaying trees torches and chattering voices, all eagerly awaiting the beginning of what would most certainly be an occasion for celebration. Guinevere hesitated before stepping through the trees and looked up into Lancelot's eyes, uncertain of what she expected to see._

"_You can do this. We can do this," Lancelot declared resolutely, his hand still laying on her arm as the wind blew his curls unto his smooth forehead._

"_It feels wrong, Lancelot...No, I can not! How can we do this?" she questioned dramatically, seeking answers she knew already._

_Lancelot sighed. "If the Gods had desired another path, would they not have shown us the way?"_

"_Oh, this is hopeless!" she cried quietly, unwillingly allowing her emotions to seep through her normally serene exterior._

"_No. No." Lancelot placed his hands on her bare shoulders, feeling the heat from her skin burst into his. "You have my hope, do you remember? I keep none for myself but bestow it all to you."_

_Guinevere opened her mouth to say something but Lancelot brushed a finger across her sensuous lips, silencing the protests he knew she meant to speak. "Do you remember the promises we made? Remember them."_

_She smiled and placed her white veil over her face, again taking his arm as they moved through the trees, content faces greeting them as they emerged. Their eyes connected one last time and she knew that heart could never be so full with love as it was now, oddly, since the thought of such sentiments had repulsed her independent spirit before. But Lancelot did not take a piece of her, rather, he shared her with herself, embracing her independence as a beautiful quality. Slowly, their feet slide into an easy rhythm as they proceeded down an aisle strewn with wild flower petals, their friends and family watching glowingly. Once they approached Merlin's graceful presence, standing atop a large rock before the shoreline, Lancelot stopped and turned towards her, his eyes flecked with gold as she stared up into them. He carefully pulled back her veil and smiled sweetly, his eyes now speaking the promises they had spoken already and would speak as long as they lived._

_Lancelot then looked beyond her, his face falling ever so slightly, and Guinevere spun to see what sight he gazed at._

_Arthur._

_Arthur stood near Merlin, his hand dashingly outstretched to her, his own appearance carefully groomed for this special occasion. Guinevere looked from Arthur to Lancelot, her eyes wild with confusion. Lancelot said nothing but backed away to the other side of Merlin, standing near the other Knights, a sadness shrouding him apart from the others. _

"_My wife," Arthur received her, as she hestitantly joined her hands with his. _No! No! This was not right_, her heart wailed, the pain in her chest excruciating. Her rational mind tried to fight for her honour, and appealed to her friendly love for Arthur but all she heard was her heart beating wildly. _Lancelot, no. I love you. You! Only you. It has only ever been you_. She looked past Arthur and into his eyes as Merlin began to speak the words that would join her to Arthur for eternity. All she saw was the dark pools, overflowing with desolation, as she sunk into them all...everything fading black..._

Lancelot...

* * *

Guinevere awoke with a start, slamming her head against a hard surface, not knowing where she was or what had happened, her dream still too raw in her mind. "Just a dream. It means nothing...," she muttered to herself, rubbing the throbbing spot at the back of her head as she struggled to look clearly at her surroundings. Where was she?

From all appearances, she judged that she was in a cave, dark and dank, a putrid smell tainting the air. It came back to her then, that Meleagrant had tricked and kidnapped her, forcing her to walk a good portion of the ways to this location blindfolded and barefooted. That accounted for the aching in her feet, her fingers gingerly running over the reddening welts caused by the rugged forest and her lack of sight when she had been traveling. She remembered little of the trip and for that she was thankful for what she did recall was being chided and thrown around as though she was a child's toy and not a human being. No food had been given to her and because she had heard many of the lusty comments said about her during the nights when they had taken rest, she did not sleep, in fear of rape. But that part was over and Guinevere hastened to push it to the depths of her memory.

She stood up defiantly, weathering the pain in her feet, determined to challenge he who would had dared cross her. "Meleagrant!" she screamed shrilly, wanting him to encounter her face-to-face. She tripped slightly over a small stone that welded itself into one of her blisters and she moaned in pain but was even more horrified to find herself teetering on the edge of a cliff, a large, black hole with no bottom trapping her. "Oh...!" She looked around furiously, realizing she was stranded on a small cliff within the cave, and to take a few steps would mean plummeting to her death, wherever the darkness of that hell ended. Guinevere saw a bridge that would link her to the other side but it stayed smugly on that side, and she knew then that she was defeated.

Her scream had awoken one of the guards who know jumped, still sleepy, to his feet; she did not understand the point of having men stationed to guard her when it was obvious the only way for her to escape was to die. Men never thought. "Meleagrant!" she cried again, desperation tingeing her voice unwillingly.

"Ah, you have awoken," the guard said dumbly from the other side of the ravine.

"Aren't you quick?" she retorted, his stupidity irritating her. "So have you! Sleeping on the job, I see. I shall have to report that to your commander if you do not bring him to me now!"

The beefy guard looked taken aback at her defiance, his tongue hanging from his mouth. "Ah, you want--,"

"Spare me your idiotic nonsense. It is bad enough I have to deal with the putrid stink you have spread over this cavern. Your words would certainly give me reason to just throw myself down there!"

He took a moment to register her words and slowly, an insulted look came about his face. Alas, he retreated back along one of the paths of the dark cave, a torch brightening his way. Guinevere knew she had won.

Meleagrant came to address her, the mere sight of him disgusting to her eyes as he stood arrogantly dressed in lavish robes he had obviously robbed a greater man of. "Is there something you want for, my Lady," he said, with mock respect.

"My freedom would be lovely." Guinevere stood tall, refusing to cower fearfully before such a despicable excuse of a man.

He chuckled, an amused smile crossing his face. "Once Arthur gives up this quest, I will take the crown of Britain and you will be free. In one way or another...to the Heavens, I expect."

"Arthur will never relent!"

"Not even for the woman he loves?" Melegrant questioned, raising an eyebrow.

Guinevere did not pause for thought, knowing the answer within her heart. "He is not so unwise as to destroy everything he has fought for for one life!"

"And you are so willing to die, then? How admirable!"

She swallowed, understanding now that her words had been right. Arthur could not come for her without bestowing his leadership upon Meleagrant, something he had vowed never to do. So it would be that she would have to be sacrificed for the good of the cause. "Yes." She set her face resolutely, determined not to let him know that she was not yet ready to welcome death. "I would rather die than see you be King of the Isle, you nasty, filthy bastard!"

Meleagrant grew angry with her severe lashing, suddenly looking more menacing amongst the lights of the torches. "If Arthur were a smart man, he would have beaten you into submission long ago! You are a poor excuse for a woman."

"And you are an expert on women, then? How could any woman ever care for you, an ugly coward!" she insulted maliciously, knowing she was only troubling herself further but it seemed pointless since her life was forfeit regardless.

Melegrant angrily gestured towards one of his men to heave the bridge over to her. "I will break you myself!" he threatened but was cut off as young man nervously ran up to him, his face dripping with exertion. 'Well, out with it!" he spat.

"There—there is a messenger. From Arthur," the man said finally.

Guinevere dared not to hope and she stayed silent, watching the turn of events interestedly. "Well, what say him, boy?!" Meleagrant demanded, greedy for this news. He expected to hear that he had won over Arthur any moment.

"The man will not speak unless it is with you, my Lord," the messenger said slowly.

"Did you threaten him?" demanded Meleagrant anxiously, tired of dancing around the issue at hand.

The nervous look again returned to the messenger as he witnessed Meleagrant's growing impatience. "He said that if we were to kill him, then the message would never be had."

Meleagrant rolled his eyes, but acceded, pointing to Guinevere as he turned away. "We are not finished."

Guinevere was left to her own thoughts which were spinning rapidly. Who had come? Was it truly a sign from Arthur? She knew not how long she sat there, huddled close to the wall, praying to her Gods that she should survive this ordeal. After a while, she heard footsteps approaching and light brightening the darkness of the cavern. She struggled to see who came, relieved to see Meleagrant's huge figure not present, but again seeing the same guard who had taunted her and another figure, hazy still in the darkness.

She gasped quickly, realizing it was Lancelot! Guinevere resisted the urge to cry out, both content and shameful at his unexpected appearance. He would help remove her from this forsaken place but she detested having to rely on him for anything. Should she not be able to fight her own battles?! _And why had Arthur sent him and not another_, she wondered bitterly, remembering her last encounter with the unpredictable Lancelot. Quickly she cast the thoughts from her mind, noticing for the first time that Lancelot was unarmed. Perhaps this was no rescue. Was he simply to join her fate?

"There. You have seen her. She lives. Now we report back to Meleagrant and you can give him the message," the guard said harshly, shoving Lancelot slightly. He did nothing for a moment, his eyes even looking blankly at her. Suddenly he slammed his elbow back into the gut of the guard and disarmed him quickly, thrusting the man's own sword into his heart.

Lancelot threw his eyes up towards Guinevere, who was stunned with the haste at which the event had just passed, as he tucked the guard's sword into an empty sheath at his waist. "Your savior, my Lady," he said with an arrogant smile.

"I did not need you to come save me!" Guinevere exclaimed haughtily while gathering her skirts around her, still holding tightly onto some of her pride. Why was it she always depended on him?

On the other side of the unknown, Lancelot pushed the bridge towards her. He darted his head to look behind him, his forehead kneading together in a worried set of furrows. "Oh? Because you were doing so well without me!" He gestured to their surroundings before pushing the bridge again, tiny beads of sweat running down his ruddy face as his muscles strained to push it with enough vigor so she could reach for it.

"I had a plan!" she protested, reaching her arm desperately trying to grab hold of the rickety wooden bridge. "In fact, I was to—,"

He ceased to try and push, lifting his leg on the bridge comfortably and placing his hand under his chin dramatically. "Oh, please, tell me _now_. We can further discuss it when Meleagrant's little soldiers are deciding whether to impale us or just toss down there," he said sarcastically, nodding to the endless, dark hole between them.

Guinevere smirked but set her stance, determined this time to reach the bridge, knowing that it would be but moments before Meleagrant's men arrived. "One more try."

Lancelot swung it towards her with all his might, not realizing his breath had actually hindered, as time seemed to halt while he watched it come nearer and nearer to Guinevere. _Grab it_, he yelled to her without words, sending only the power and will of his mind. Her eyes shot up instantly, meeting his as though she had heard his unspoken words of encouragement, and she ceased to watch for the precise moment to reach for the bridge, her gaze fixated on the dark depths of his eyes. Still, she held her hand out and Lancelot felt a sudden chill flow through his body as her stare intensified, seeming to spell words before his own eyes. _Never doubt me_. He could almost feel the touch of the wooden platform upon his own fingertips, as though he was linked with Guinevere in such a magical way that they shared thoughts and senses.

She had caught it and swirled toward him, her eyes not daring to look at the nothingness below her. Jumping off, she landed squarely on her feet before him, her dark eyes smug and her lips wound in a proud smile. "Now, should we try something difficult?"

Lancelot, still rattled by the soulful connection that had allowed them to speak without words, smiled lightly, but was moved swiftly to action when his eyes looked upon a distant glowing light on the walls of the cave. "They are coming. We must go."

"I know the way," Guinevere commanded, moving ahead of him to one side of the dank cave, her eyes alert.

"_I_ know the way," Lancelot countered, turning to the other wall confidently.

She rolled her eyes, forcing herself not to flinch at the blinding pain in her feet, as tiny rocks began to embed themselves in blistering bottoms of her feet, torn and bleeding from when she had been forced to walk part of the way through the forest to the cave. "If this is because I am a women--,"

Lancelot cast aside her words with his hand, his eyes flickering towards the opening, the flames from the torches of Meleagrant's men growing brighter. He gripped her by the elbows strongly, bringing her no pain but a great feeling of passion instead as he stared wondrously at her. "If serious conversations are what please you, by all means, my Lady. But I'd rather have them in this life and not the next. Water seeps from that way over there. If water can get in--,"

"Surely, there must be a way out," Guinevere realized, nodding as she tried to shield her blush, thinking still of the pressure of his hands touching her bare arms. She surrendered her pride and followed after him, the jagged rocky floor scathing the raw skin of her feet as she tried to make haste, limping slightly.

Lancelot kneeled down, his fingers skimming the hard ground for traces of water, smiling broadly and holding up his damp hand happily, a child-like sweetness about him that Guinevere had never been privy too. "Ah! I think we have not much further to go!"

She silently hoped he was right, uncertain of how much more pain she could bear before crippling her poor feet. Guinevere took a moment's rest, leaning her hand against a cool, smooth wall for support and shutting her eyes, a mirage of images of the last few days blurring her vision. It had been like a nightmare from which she could never awake, her defiance fading away as the time wore on and she feared that no one would come for her. She detested relying on others for aid she knew she could well deliver herself but her situation had been so perilous, so desperate that only another could take her from that hell.

Lancelot had come for her. Just as he had promised what seemed like ages ago.

And I will save you...every time henceforth from this moment. 

She did not deserve his help, having been as unpredictable in her manner to him as he had been to her. At first she could stand him not even a little but now it was as though he saw her as no one else. The Guinevere she was, not the woman everyone else wanted to see. She had cared little what his fate would be at one time, but once he had nearly been taken from this life, she had gone to great lengths to ensure that he lived. And even though she had acted as though she could only offer him friendship, had she not been jealous when the ladies of the village had flounced their way about him, trying to work their way into his heart? And most recently, she had fought with him and claimed she needed his help not at all, when in fact her fate had been darkening and she truly was thankful he had come to save her. She had been cruel to him for treating her so inconsistently, when she too had been guilty of that crime.

Guinevere was shaken from her thoughts by the sounds of boots banging down on the cavern floor, growing dangerously close. She glanced at Lancelot, her face growing steely as she saw the path they must now take; they would have to fight. Again, it was as though their thoughts connected, and he withdrew his sword, which glistened despite the lack of light. Guinevere walked to his side, looking up at him expectantly, her hand extended. "Your dagger?"

Lancelot looked away, pretending not to know the meaning behind her demand. "They disarmed me," he lied.

"You keep a small dagger in a sheath beneath your breeches by your ankle. Deny it," she said defiantly, brushing her long hair from her face.

"You have been through enough already. I will fight," he said with finality, though his voice trembled. How could he deny the right of another to fight against those that had caused them great injustice, especially as a Knight? Woman or no woman, was not this revenge rightfully Guinevere's?

"' If serious conversations are what please you, by all means...but I'd rather have them in this life and not the next'...," she repeated his words back to him firmly, smiling at her own witty brilliance.

Lancelot sighed, but relented and pulled the dagger from its hiding spot, handing reluctantly in her small hands. "You had better survive this or else the entire thing will have been for bloody nothing," he warned, inwardly impressed by her unfailing bravery.

"Are you always this worrisome before battle?" Guinevere asked, feigning sweetness. They took their stances beside one another, greeting Meleagrant and his men with undaunted, hard stares.

"You came all this way for _that_?" sneered Meleagrant to Lancelot, though there was a lusty edge to his voice as he glanced along her body so thinly veiled by her gown.

"I am going to kill you today," Lancelot replied seriously, his blade shining as he held it before his enemies.

Melegrant laughed loudly, his three men following his lead, chuckling. "You are certainly very ambitious for a messenger. Have you ever even held a sword before, lad? I do not think I have yet fought sought an unworthy opponent." He added, shrugging, "Oh well. It will certainly be over quick enough for you!"

Lancelot smiled but said nothing. Guinevere stepped forward, unabashed, determined to give him the credit he was due and met Meleagrant's eyes fiercely. "You fool! Do you know not whom you challenge? Sir Lancelot? Of Artorius Castus's great Sarmatian Knights?"

Meleagrant's men were visibly shaken as a slow fear appeared in their eyes as they saw Lancelot in a new light, having heard his name and his near-magical abilities spoken of time and again. Even in Meleagrant, the confidence so prevalent in his expression wilted ever so slightly and Lancelot and Guinevere saw they had a chance for victory if they stuck now, while their enemies were distracted. She lunged forward first, heading past Meleagrant speedily and barring her dagger to his three pale-faced men, her facial expression brutally cold.

Meleagrant drew nearer to Lancelot, eager to kill one of the most-spoken of warriors in the land. Lancelot cocked his head, silently accepting his challenge, his sword drawn firmly. They circled eachother for a few rounds, each sizing up the other's ability and stamina, knowing it would be futile to take shots at this point.

Meanwhile, Guinevere tackled the three remaining men fearlessly, her battle tactics nearly pointless, as they were hesitant at fighting a woman, even though she directly threatened their lives with her dagger. Even when she jumped towards them, they did not wield their own weapons but simply stepped back, their drawn faces full of reluctance. She sighed, waving their dagger dangerously close to their flesh and yelling, "I realize that I am a woman. But I'm sure you also realize that this is a sharp blade...no?" When still the men did nothing but exchange nervous glances, Guinevere felt her patience begin to ebb away, her body eager and ready to fight, only being more encouraged by the grunting stemming from the ongoing battle between Melegrant and Lancelot. Reaching her breaking point, Guinevere dashed forwards and slashed across one of the men's faces, the skin across his cheek splitting as blood surged from the cut. The others looked in horror and finally faced her as an equal, their swords drawn and faces bloodthirsty. The one whose face she had slashed vengefully aimed for her heart but she ducked the blow, coming up behind him rapidly and throwing her dagger in his spine and out again. Turning around quickly, she faced the other two unflinchingly, intending on sending them to the same fate as their comrade. "Well?" she called out calmly, guiding the men to her with her fingers.

Lancelot saw that Guinevere had easily conquered one of Meleagrant's henchman and he felt confident that he need not watch over her shoulder; she had proven her abilities time and again to him. He resisted from crying out in pain as his enemy struck his leg violently, not slashing it, but leaving a large, pounding welt as it was the side of the sword, not the blade that hit him. Lancelot refocused, his eyes searching Meleagrant's positioning for his weakness, finally seeing that he held his weapon in such a manner that left his right shoulder vulnerable. He diverted Meleagrant's attention by pretending to launch to the left, while actually jumping high off the ground and slicing a deep cut into his other shoulder. Collapsing halfway unto the ground, Melegrant's eyes took on the look Lancelot had seen many a man take whence they had known their own defeat.

With heavy breathing, Lancelot paused from killing his enemy though his sword was still aimed at the man's neck. He grinned tiredly as Guinevere strolled near him, three dead bodies laying strewn and disembodied behind her. She saw the flecks of admiration in his eyes as he glanced over her handiwork. "Impressive. Perhaps I should let you do the honours?"

Guinevere flushed with pleasure; it was a sacred thing to be offered to kill such a worthy and damning enemy and for Lancelot to give it up, he must truly see her now as an equal.

Meleagrant took this opportunity and grabbed Guinevere swiftly with a firm grasp as she tried to wrestle from his arms, holding his sword to her throat threateningly, the pain of the wound bestowed on him by Lancelot seemingly no longer a bother. Lancelot did not move, knowing that now was no time for tricks and michievious plans. "Drop your weapon. Or I swear to you I'll cut her throat."

"Let her go," Lancelot said in a low voice, his dark eyes speaking to her own and she ceased struggling in Meleagrant's disgusting arm.

"Drop it!" shrieked Meleagrant hysterically, noticing the dead bodies of his men strewn around the cave floor and coming to the realization that he alone now faced two of the fiercest fighters he had ever battled. He tightened his hold on Guinevere, his sword causing a small trickly of blood to course down her neck.

"Alright! Alright!" Lancelot slowly lowered the dagger he had given Guinevere, her eyes widening in surprise. He was yielding to Meleagrant and giving him their victory so now they would stand at his mercy!

Meleagrant, content now, looked down at Guinevere, one of his hands winding around her chin, the other still firmly gripping her elbow. "Now I can do what I had planned...," he said to her lustily. But the thought and all other thoughts were taken from his mind suddenly as a slow trail of blood seeped down his face. Surprised, his eyes dazed, Meleagrant reached his hand up to find the source, gasping when he felt the firm handle of a knife impaled in his forehead. He fell back onto the ground, the loud sound emanating through the cave, his eyes still widened in shock.

There was shock to on Guinevere's face, as she realized that Lancelot had not tossed aside his weapon but had created the illusion of doing so by lowering it and Meleagrant had been so wrapped in his plans for her that he had been too stupid to notice. They smiled gratefully at one another for a moment, feeling remorseful for the death of this horrible man but feeling pleased with Lancelot's cunning.

They dared not linger. Giving Meleagrant's dead corpse one final look, Lancelot reached for Guinevere's hand and together they followed the water trail and escaped down a massive waterfall, Tristan's prophecy ringing loud and clear in his ears. But one look at Guinevere and Lancelot knew that what he had done had not been for spite but for something greater than that. Something with a name he feared.

* * *

"Lancelot, I cannot walk," Guinevere said quietly, admitting her weakness as she rested on a flat rock, spreading her legs out so the bottoms of her feet did not touch the ground. Her pain this time could not be swallowed and cast aside but for the first time, she felt at ease with confessing her own limitations to someone. Lancelot had no expectations of her and he never pushed her to play a different role or deny who she truly was. It was a refreshing feeling she had not known she desired.

His gaze darted to her quickly, a sympathetic softness in his eyes as he saw the red, oozing blisters on her feet. "I would take your pain for myself if I could," he said quietly, dampening a cloth in the stream by his feet and coming to sit close to her, his hands reaching for her injured feet. Gently he pressed the wet cloth to her feet, wiping away the dirt and tiny stones so her sores could heal without infection.

Guinevere suddenly her eyes stinging with tears and fought back the urge to fall back into his strong arms and release everything she had caged...the kidnapping, the pain of her wounds, and even her confusion about her destiny with Arthur. But it was not simply the searing pain as the cool water touched her bleeding blisters that caused to her to sway but also his tender kindness, so unseemly in these times. Lancelot literally winced with her every gasp and flinch as though he honestly did feel her pain. "What are we to do? We have a ways yet you said until your horse awaits us and Meleagrant's men will waste no time in avenging his death," she asked softly, her voice so forlorn, so dismal that Lancelot looked up into her eyes with surprise, shaken that the Guinevere he had believed to be fearless and utterly defiant to anyone's orders had now retreated into this broken girl, whose hope and spirit had been greatly withered.

He placed his finger under her chin and raised her face to look at him, his eyes soft and comforting. "Do not lose hope, not now. You must keep it for both of us."

Guinevere laughed bitterly, though she noticed that he was more handsome at this moment than he had ever been, the sunlight shining on his dark hair and his eyes sparkling, a collage of colours. "See, you know this is hopeless too!" But her voice shook as she recalled that in her dream, his solemn face had reminded her of those exact words he had spoken at an earlier time. Was that earlier time now? Was everything she had dreamt to come to pass?

"Nay, Guinevere," he answered, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face tenderly and bending his head even closer to hers. "I have just given all my hope to you. I keep none for myself. So must believe for both us."

She held onto his sweet words, knowing instantly they would exist forever in her mind. And in her dreams. Determined, she decided that she would not let Meleagrant's filthy henchmen be the end of her. Yes, she was injured, but she was not yet dead and if was her time to die in this way, then she would not fall until everyone one of those bastards was dead. She stood up eagerly, her strong-minded spirit not considering the depth of her injury, and she stumbled slightly, nearly falling if it were not for Lancelot's quick move to her side. He steadied her and despite her willful attempts to defy the odds, she felt a little of her despair once again at her inability to walk on her own two feet. "Perhaps...you should go on...I will only bring you death," Guinevere offered, knowing that if she was left alone to defend herself she would do so until her last breath was ripped from her.

"I am the man here! It is I who should offer my life--," Lancelot began, grinning slightly at her brave offer.

Guinevere waved her hand absently. "I have no use for those romantic sentiments. In any battle you would leave behind the ones who lag behind, no? You must leave me!"

"There are so many things wrong with that, Guinevere, I know not even where to start!" He took a deep breath, once again sitting with her on the flat rock. "First, no, we keep our men whether they are dead or alive. We abandon no one, Knight's honour! Secondly, my Lady, if I were to leave you here for dead, would not all of this have been in vain? My horse and myself would have tired ourselves for nothing!"

She swatted him on the shoulder, smiling at his humourous tone. "Ahh...then what shall we do?"

A seriousness fell unto Lancelot's dark eyes as he looked intently at her. "If you cannot walk, I will carry you."

* * *

"You are certainly not as light as you appear, do you know that?" Lancelot teased later thate evening, his face glowing pleasantly in the flames of their tiny campfire, as he rubbed his back for emphasis. The had settled to rest for the evening, believing their greatest dangers were well behind them and had enjoyed a brief supper, filled with tales of how Lancelot had managed to track Meleagrant and their respective adventures.

"You are incorrigible, _do you know that_?" quipped Guinevere quickly, smiling at him across the fire, her cloak wrapped up to her chin for warmth.

"I'm just hoping my horse will be able to carry us both tomorrow!"

Guinevere smirked. "Well she has managed to carry both you and your ego many a time through battle, so I think we need not fear!"

He laughed, his eyes seeming to dance with the bewitchment of the flames. "Brione will always be my greatest friend. The bond between a horse and a man is unlike any other." His arm reached for a long, pointy branch and he then prodded at the burning leaves and sticks with it, fascinated by the rising embers. "In Sarmatia, there's an old legend that says that warriors never truly leave this earth but return as wild horses, living the freedom they never possessed as men."

Guinevere snorted disbelievingly. "That accounts, then, for the overrunning of this land by the many wild horses that run across this ground!" She felt guilty suddenly, watching as his face fell sadly in a small smile and instantly, she was sorry for having made a jest of his story. It was obvious he rarely spoke of home and when he did there was an emotion to it she had not reckoned he'd possessed. "When you return home, what will you do?"

"I think not to return home." There was a sense of finality to his voice.

"Alright. Then, once all this is over and there is peace on this Isle what shall happen for you? Arthur will be King...I will be..." she left her unfinished thoughts blowing in the wind. They need not speculate of that now.

His eyes met hers briefly. "I have thought little of it, to be honest. My life has been a constant battlefield and I know nothing else."

"Will you take a wife? Begin a family?" she asked quietly, only one answer she knew would be pleasing to her ears. Flashes of her dream came crashing down to her and for a second, all she saw was the way he had looked at her so lovingly in it. _No, that was but a dream._

The real Lancelot before her ran hands resignedly along his face and smiled grimly. "I have not the stomach for marriage, I think."

She knew there was more he desired to say but did not push him, thinking perhaps, that he was too tired, tired not just have their small battle today but of the existence of his own being. "We should rest. There is a long journey ahead of us tomorrow." Guinevere tossed some water to undo the fire they had painstakingly created, feeling a sudden chill descend over the air with its absence. "I would that I had not done that!" she muttered regretfully.

"It grows cold," Lancelot said gruffly, noticing for the first time the thin fabric of her gown and, despite, the wooly cloak that donned her shoulders, the bumps of the cold freckling her skin. He came behind her quietly, spreading a large, warm blanket over her, so long that it ran to the ground and could certainly cover any number of people! Saying nothing, he settled against a log, wrapping his arms around him for comfort, surprised at his selflessness in giving her his own blanket. He was not exactly renowned for his good deeds.

She laid across from him, turning her back from him as she felt she could not bear the unintentionally intense and alert gaze of his eyes; he was a Knight after all, trained to keep focused even in the dead of night. Her body felt worn and tired, desiring sleep, but it was not to be had as she heard the ground rustle beneath Lancelot as he tossed and turned, trying to find a spot of comfort as well as keep warm. Sleepily and silently, she pulled her body over to him and spread the blanket he had given to her around both their bodies, intending to prove to him her own chivalrous nature, after all he had done for her as of late.

Guinevere nestled into the crook of his arm, their bodies fitting like a perfect lock and key and they fell exhaustedly to sleep quickly, both comforted and unsettled by the warm body laying beside them. They were silently thankful for the presence of the other, loneliness an ever present factor in each of their lives and particularly needing companionship after all that had happened of late. But as their bodies heaved rhythmically, a delicate eroticism existed in their breathing, reminiscent of something more then simple companionship and that was discomforting for both. Guinevere intertwined her hands sleepily with his, and both knew that was the greatest touch that could ever exist between them.

* * *

Arthur hurried into the courtyard upon hearing the report that two figures on a horse had been spotted heading towards the gates of Kent and he prayed that it was Lancelot and Guinevere. "Please, merciful God," he prayed, his eyes lifting to the sky. He pushed his way through the numbering crowd, all eager to see whether the legendary Knight Lancelot would return with the Lady Guinevere. Whispers amongst the townspeople had fostered a heroic reputation for Lancelot, the tales of his fighting and battles told to young children who now favored the handsome young Knight as their idol. A small child, smudges of dirt running along his cheeks, jumped before Arthur and declared confidently, "I know it's him!! I know Lancelot saved your sweetheart, Ar-Art..Ar," he trailed off embarrassedly, struggling to pronounce Arthur's name.

Arthur bent down, and mussed the child's hair, an amused expression on his face. "Arthur. Worry not, child. Names mean little. But you know Lancelot's name and not my own, should I be jealous?"

The blood rose in the boy's face as he brightened at talk of his favorite Knight. "No! I like you too! You're my second favorite...Lancelot is the greatest Knight and when I get bigger, I want him to show me how to fight!"

"Well, we will have to ask him, won't we?" Arthur responded, grinning. "But you are right—he is the greatest Knight. And I too, know he brings Guinevere with him."

"Are you going to marry her?" the boy demanded brazenly, unaware of the blatant informality of his manners. .

"I, uh--," Arthur struggled with his words, suddenly feeling as small as the boy standing infront of him. Fortunately, there was no time to prepare a response as he heard the gates being opened. Everything but who entered seemed to cease to exist in Arthur's eyes and his words caught in his throat as he searched Lancelot's eyes, who simply nodded towards his friend. Arthur breathed a sigh of relief, growing more comforted as he saw Lancelot gallantly help Guinevere down from his steed.

Arthur reached for Guinevere and pulled her into his arms, whispering his apologies for not saving her himself into her hair. The villagers seemed more interested in Lancelot as they huddled around him, their faces enthusiastic to hear how he managed to handle Meleagrant and his men single-handedly. Lancelot looked unwilling to be at the center of such attention and Bors pulled an arm around his shoulder, barking at the people of all ages, "Let him alone a moment!"

The crowd mulled around the courtyard though their gaze still shifted curiously to Lancelot. He smiled thankfully, pulling his gear off his weary horse before handing the reins over to a young squire. Galahad nodded at Lancelot casually. "How'd you do it?"

"You're good but you're not that good!" Gawain chided.

Lancelot grinned absently, no one noticing how his eyes drifted time and again to Guinevere and Arthur's romantic reunion. Tristan strolled over to the group, carving a mysterious figure as he did so with his knife. "He killed Meleagrant."

"I think you actually may know everything, honestly, Tristan. Whatever herbs you drink, I want some!" Bors said boisterously.

Lancelot and Tristan shared a knowing look before Lancelot accorded to what he'd said. "I did indeed...ut it was easy from the start—their trail was practically drawn like a map for me!"

Dagonet perked up, having anticipated the end to that horribly annoying man. "Was it worth it? He dared to come against Arthur!"

"Every bloody stroke." Lancelot paused thoughtfully, knowing that he had enjoyed killing Meleagrant for reasons the other Knights, except Tristan possibly with his special sight and knowledge, did not realize. Meleagrant had been a great foe before, but once he had dared to harm Guinevere, his fate was sealed in Lancelot's eyes.

"I'll drink to that!" Gawain exclaimed, preparing to head back into the fortress to begin the celebrations. The other Knights followed but Arthur abruptly noticed their departure and called Lancelot to stay back, his face still full of emotion.

He placed his hand on Lancelot's shoulder and Lancelot repeated the gesture, their familiar stance easy to their hearts. "You have done for me what no other could. I am indebted you."

Lancelot forced himself not to glance at Guinevere whom he knew was looking at him. "I did what any man would have."

"No, that was beyond the call of a soldier. You are a true brother, Lancelot," Arthur insisted, his gratefulness causing a slow, burning feeling of betrayal to exist within Lancelot.

"I, too, am indebted to you," Guinevere spoke up strongly, silently wishing she could extricate her hand from Arthur's. She was no delicate flower constantly in need of care.

"Your happiness together is enough of a gift to me." Lancelot's words were pleasant to Arthur's ears, Guinevere could see that from the smile on his face. But to her, it was as though he had slapped her, casting aside all that they had shared. A small voice within her spoke, _what else would you have him say?_

Arthur beamed and pressed his hands together. "In that case, Lancelot, wait just a moment." He swept his arms and the villagers attended to his gesture, drawing closer to him. "It was my intention to do this differently but I know now that such things do not matter. I nearly lost you, Guinevere, and by a blessed miracle you survived the wrath of a man who would not hesitate set his sword on his own blood," Arthur paused, a boyish blush touching his cheeks. "And so, though I am not so eloquent in words, my Lady, I should hope to be so in marriage. I ask you now, before the union our two peoples have made, to be my wife. Together, we can truly bring together the people of this land!" Again, he stopped, his gaze now settling only on her and a hopeful smile lingering on his lips. "And I love you."

Guinevere's fingers fluttered to her lips, her eyes widened in deep unexpectance. The dream she had had in Meleagrant's cave rushed back to her but she threw it aside quickly, uneager to feel the crippling pain it had wrought her once again. Besides, dreams meant nothing and were but fanciful flits of the imagination. Were they not? Her lips moved but no words emerged, her inner hesitation stopping her as Arthur's proposal danced again in her mind. He had asked to wed him as a union of their peoples and only secondly had he pledged his love for her and though she too had a political, rational mind, it seemed wrong to marry on behalf of others and cast love aside as an added pleasure. She lifted her eyes just behind Arthur to Lancelot, who bowed his head and ran his hands over his curly hair, unaware of her gaze. If anything, it was he who had been more like a lover to her than Arthur, saving her more times than she wished and gazing at her with such a mixture of emotions written in his eyes. Or was that her wishful fantasy? _No_, she realized, as he lifted his head and his eyes portrayed nothing of his soul and his torment, but indifference to her decision, _he does not love me_. He did not love her with the love that had been so desperately prophesized to her, the love she had not known she desired. If he did, certainly now would he not speak of it, finally tell her what had been dwelling with in him since they'd met, or at the very least, look upon her with such a beautiful look so that she would know that she imagined not his feelings? But no, Lancelot's expression remained unchanging and she returned his eyes to Arthur, swallowing hard, who noticed nothing of her hesitance, thinking she only sough to win the approval of her people. Arthur was a good man who, she could see, was not afraid to emit his love her, even if it was an afterthought to his conscience. She could see their future in his eyes and there was nothing but contentment and a deep, mutual affection between them to be seen. Passion was not written in their stars but perhaps, Guinevere had had enough of great, all-encompassing romance; it unsettled the heart and mind and made her a person she had promised never to become. She smiled up at her Arthur, her destiny having settled itself at his kind grin. "Yes, Arthur, I will wed you!" she announced, finally, ages to her seeming to have passed when it had really been but an instant.

Arthur wrapped his arms around her, lifting her gently off the ground, and kissing her for all to see. This man was not afraid to set his love for her before the world. "We will be wed, Guinevere, once we have settled this land into one of freedom and equality. And on that day, I will become ruler of this great land, if these dear people would have me--,"

The crowd roared loudly, blissfully accepting Arthur's destined kingship. "And I will also become husband to you and I swear to you now, that you will be my equal, my love, and the Queen of Britain!" Arthur proclaimed, grinning more broadly as the villagers again erupted into loud cheers, yelling good wishes to their future King and Queen.

Guinevere glanced at the smiling faces of the crowd and knew that her decision had been the right one; she did love Arthur, though it was not quite the love she had imagined it to be. Her eyes pointedly sought out a certain man, eager to match her indifference to his, so that he need not think she pined for him but all she saw was his retreating figure, still standing tall and proud. A small sigh escaped her lips as she felt slightly deflated at his calmness, wanting Lancelot to show some sort of emotion or give her a sign that he was hurting. That he _cared_. But why should she expect anything from him when she could offer him nothing?


	9. Blood of War

A/N: Kudos to those of you that figured out that my last chapter was inspired by the movie First Knight. Not a great film (wasn't impressed with Richard Gere) but I loved Julia Ormond—so pretty! Anyway, credits for many of the ideas in that chapter are direct from that movie...I'm not that creative ;) Aaaanyway, big things coming up! Enjoy!

* * *

Guinevere sat by a small window, running her fingers through her hair absently as she gazed out at the rolling green hills that defined her country. It had been months since Arthur's proposal and many battles had been fought and won since that day she had promised herself to him. They had left immediately from Kent, leaving the villagers and several Knights there, all instilled with a hopeful sense of duty and allegiance towards Arthur, and returned to Hadrian's Wall. Small battles had been fought along the coasts, slowing drawing nearer and nearer inland and the air of the Isle was ripe with blood. Guinevere sensed that the final, great battle that would seal all their fates was coming soon and though she welcomed the chance to burn the Saxons from her land once and for all, she dreaded that day as well, knowing that once it ended, she would be bound to Arthur for eternity.

Sighing, Guinevere inwardly chastised herself, her conscience reminding her of her fine fortune to have the love of a man so pure and good and that she did no duty in marrying him; she did love him...in some way. Her eyes rested upon the glowing sight of the moon as she silently begged the night skies to unveil her path to her; was she to marry Arthur when she dreamt of another?

Oh, the other. She and Lancelot had kept their distance from one another, exchanged pleasantries for Arthur's benefit but little less, both knowing that their separation was not mean-spirited nor forced but benevolent and chosen. Although, when they had crossed paths unaware to anyone else, they slipped into their old patterns of mindless bickering and impassioned sparring, as natural as it was for either of them to hold a sword. But always their encounters were filled with an undercurrent of intensity and fervor and once they had ended their silly arguments, Guinevere and Lancelot would find themselves trapped in a long-winded discussion of politics, battle techniques, personal history...anything. In just a few moments, more was said between them with words, glances, and expressions than they had ever released in discussions with people over the entirety of their young lives. There was an ease of conversation between them, nearly unsettling to Guinevere as she knew not where his mind began and hers ended.

And for that reason, they kept apart, their connection, especially since he'd saved her from Meleagrant's clutches, was too overwhelming, too _dangerous_. He was too dangerous. Her eyes flickered across the rolling fields, finally settling upon the sight she realized now she had been seeking for since she had come to the window. Lancelot was walking around in a large semi-circle, trying to calm a wild horse just a short distance from the stables. She saw that he spoke but he knew not what he said, her gaze watching intently as the horse lifted its front hooves threateningly close to Lancelot, its dark mane shaking erratically and nostrils heaving. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched him stumble back, but not abandon the horse to its wildness; he regained his footing and even from her distance, she could tell that the horse and man were locked in a battle of wills and power, each determined to break the other. Lancelot took a small step forward, resting his hand slowly on the horse's side, stroking it lightly. The horse shuddered but did not force him away; in truth, it seemed to relish in his touch, slowly settling into a peaceful calm. Lancelot bent his head and whispered something untouchable to Guinevere's ears but she knew it did not matter; he had unfailingly brought peace and comfort to this troubled creature whom all others had abandoned and claimed too wild.

"My darling Guinevere why do you persist him so?" Merlin asked carefully, his tone gentle as he drew nearer to her from the open door of her chamber.

Guinevere gasped softly and withdrew her eyes from watching Lancelot, not knowing anyone had come within her lodging. She recovered quickly, a small smile on her lips as she feigned innocence. "I know not of whom you speak."

Merlin rested his aged hand on her arm and without words Guinevere sensed that he had seen beyond her lie. "You bring only pain unto yourself."

She looked up into his eyes, surprised to see kindness and not scorn within their depths. "It is nothing." Whirling around abruptly and moving from the window, she glanced absently at the small Roman ornaments in the room, all meaningless to her eyes and heart. "It is Arthur I love," Guinevere said firmly, placing her hands together to keep them from shaking.

"Yes, as a brother. As a king. But it is Lancelot you desire above all others. To Arthur you give your bright spirit and your fighting body. To Lancelot, you bequeath your soul and heart," Merlin replied quietly.

"No! No!" she protested passionately. "There is no truth at all to what-,"

"Why do you deny it still, Guinevere?" Merlin interrupted evenly, though his eyes were pained as he looked at her.

"There is nothing to deny!" Her eyes blazed as she struggled to abate the meaning of his words.

"It is inevitable. You must know this."

Merlin reached his hands to enfold Guinevere's but she pulled away, her fingers fluttering to her temple. "Nothing...nothing is inevitable! There is always choice."

Merlin went to the door silently, his body tired and weak but his mind sharp though weary. "Then make the right choice." He left her alone then, the darkness of the coming night beginning to settle in the room and she suddenly felt utterly alone.

* * *

Guinevere hurried along the corridors, throwing powerfully open the door behind which the Round Table convened. "Why was I not called?" she demanded instantly, caring little for the shocked looks upon the faces of the younger Knights, so unaccustomed to such a careless and strong manner in a woman.

Tristan shrugged lazily. "Someone was sent to inform you but alas, it looks like they failed."

Guinevere nodded violently and moved closer to Arthur. "_That_--," she snapped viciously, pointing furiously at Tristan and his blatant nonchalance, "will not do! If this alliance is to work, Arthur, I must be knowledgeable of all matters in order to better inform and prepare my fighters!"

Arthur held up his hand to stop her from continuing her rampage and to show his understanding of her trouble. "You are right. You should have been properly informed of this meeting...particularly this meeting," he said, exchanging knowing looks with his foremost Knights.

Her eyes followed his around the table, though once they reached Lancelot, it was as though her gaze would not stray and she literally had to focus all her energy and strength on tearing herself from him. Shaking her head slightly, she asked coldly, "What is it, then?"

"The Saxons, Lady," Gawain answered smartly, a smirk gracing his bearded face.

"Well, yes! What of them?" asked Guinevere impatiently, her eyes flickering to Arthur, who smiled faintly at Gawain's cheek. He did nothing to show that she was to be taken seriously and was as critical to success against the Saxons as any sword.

Bors grunted and then laughed loudly, slapping his protruding belly. "Oh nothing. They just wanted to say hello." The other Knights of the table joined heartily in the laughter and even Arthur could not keep a small chuckle from his lips. Guinevere blushed, feeling out of place, as she never had in any situation before this moment.

Lancelot sprang to straighten his chair, his relaxed manner replaced with a firm, unsmiling expression. "Stop. There is little to laugh at."

Guinevere bit her lip, her heart warming to the kindness he, and notably not Arthur, had shown. Arthur took heed of his friend's seriousness and apologized to Guinevere softly, before he continued the meeting, his voice as unwavering and full of bravery as ever. "The Saxons approach Hadrian's wall with an army number thousands. Our small battles are done. The day we have all awaited is before us; we shall be either victorious or dead. We must be prepared both in our tactics and weapons but also in our hearts. We must harden ourselves to pain and suffering and bear it all, if only we can end the lives of all of those Saxons! I trust we have preparations planned...," Arthur looked at Gawain who grinned back.

"It is all set. Even if we don't come out victorious, the Saxons will be so bloody blindsided and that alone is worth this!" Gawain announced, winning the excited cheers of his fellow comrades.

"Let us show them who this land belongs to!" Arthur yelled, his voice echoing along the stone walls of the chamber. The Knights jumped from their seats, all brandishing their swords to the ceiling, cries escaping their mouths.

Soon after, they departed, leaving just Guinevere and Arthur, the former still irritated by his earlier ignorance of her displeasure at being mocked. Guinevere gazed around the empty chamber, the large Round Table looming ominously before her. "This is it..." she realized slowly. "Everything rests on this final battle."

"This will be the battle to end all battles, yes." Arthur took a deep breath, rubbing the lines of his forehead tersely and her eyes narrowed; he was keeping something from her.

"Arthur, speak it!" There was no time for pleasantries and courtesy; preparations needed to get underway as soon as possible and Guinevere could feel that old excitement for battle spread within her.

He reached for her hand, covering hers with his, the warmth of their bodies uniting. "This...this is no easy task. I—I want you to stay behind the walls until the battle is over." He breathed a sigh of relief, the words finally expelled from his mind.

She ripped her hand from his, her eyes flashing angrily. "You cannot deny me the right to fight!"

"Guinevere, please, you must listen--," Arthur began but was interrupted as Guinevere banged her fist violently on the table, her face reddening in fury.

"No! No, Arthur, you must listen to _me_! I have let you keep behind before but I will not do it again! This battle is as much mine as yours!" She declared forcefully, her voice raised and echoing along the stone walls.

Arthur's expression hardened slightly at her defiance though love was still ever so clear in his dark eyes. "I know that!"

"Oh?" She glared at him darkly, her hands resting defiantly on her waist as she took a step dauntingly closer to him. "Arthur, war is not something that occurs for me...it is in my very blood. I will fight!"

"And it is in mine also—we are not so different," he answered softly, his face pale and drawn in the dark light of the chamber. Guinevere could see the pain and stress of the task before him stretched across his suffering face and part of her longed to caress away his worry and bring some measure of peace to this good man. "But..."

She stiffened, her kind thoughts tossed with ease from her mind at his hesitance. "Someone must stay behind to ensure that those who cannot fight are guaranteed their safety," he finished in a quiet voice.

"And you would have that somebody be me," Guinevere followed his train of thought sullenly, rubbing her hands together tensely. This was not right. "You do not need me to protect these people, you simply want to keep me from harm's way!"

"Is that so wrong? I love you and I will not see your life sacrificed for my quest!" Arthur cried in his defense, collapsing wearily into a chair.

"We must all make sacrifices, Arthur! What of your friends? You care for them yet you are willing to let them do their duty and possibly die in that conquest! Bors, Gawain, Galahad, Dagonet, Tristan...," she stopped, her voice stumbling to utter the final name. "..Lancelot," she finished, her voice whispery. She did not notice the shadowy silohouette of a figure standing in the doorway, privy to the heated argument between Arthur and Guinevere.

"That is a different matter!" Arthur protested weakly.

"It is no different! You swore we would be equals, Arthur?" Guinevere said nastily, her nostrils flaring in anger. "And now, you ask me to stay behind while you fight the greatest battle again our common foe, the Saxons? And this, my Lord, is not the first time you have expected me to stay and keep house, while you play the warrior!"

Arthur looked sadly at her, her violent rage ebbing at his strong will. "Guinevere...there has been so much loss, so much pain. This table--," he said, gesturing to the ornate but empty Round Table, "was once full of eager young men...now there are but seven of us left. Yes, there are the younger ones but their youth makes them careless. Most likely, some of them will not survive this battle. Is it not enough that my family and friends must give their lives for my quest? Why the woman I love too?"

There was so much emotion and despair in his voice that she felt her icy resolve slowly crack and she knelt as his feet, looking into the sad eyes of her future husband and King. "I will stay this last time," she said finally, forcing a small smile on her lips for his comfort as he brought his hand to the top of her head and along the contours of her face.

The shadowy figure moved away from the doorway before anyone could spot his presence.

"It will all come to a head soon enough," Arthur predicted, rising from his chair and walking to the door, his eyes connected to hers unfailingly. "And then there will be a glorious end, I promise you."

His prediction stayed with her though he had left her side. _It will all come to a head soon enough_. She had a peculiar feeling that though Arthur knew it not, it was not battle he spoke of. Something else was coming; she could feel it heavy in the air, waiting to descend upon them all. She exhaled, tired of attempting to read the signs of the fates and was left instead to her own tormented thoughts and simmering anger; yes, she had acquiesced to Arthur's request but there was no peace for her mind. Guinevere felt as though she had betrayed her people, her beliefs...herself.

"No guilt lays upon your shoulders," a quiet voice spoke from the darkness. Looking up, Guinevere saw Lancelot leaning against the doorway, his tall frame blocking the fiery lights. She shivered, not only because he had known what she had not spoken but because she was aware of his gaze even though she could not see the dark pools of his eyes.

Recovering quickly, she masked her surprise and anxiety with a stubborn aura of detachment. "You heard then. And what of you? Do you think Arthur is right to ask this of me?"

He emerged from the dark and ran his fingers along the rim of the Round Table as he drew closer to her. She could see the fine features of his face now, youthful and free as Arthur's was not and she trembled slightly, a longing familiar yet never realized spreading within her. "Arthur is neither right nor wrong, he is just a man," Lancelot decreed softly, standing infront of her. "He simply wants to ensure that the woman he is to marry, the woman he loves lives long enough to see their wedding day."

Guinevere, without even considering her actions, lifted her hand to his cheek, forcing his eyes to meet hers. "And if it were you? Would you ask the same of such a woman?"

Lancelot knew that her breath held for his response and that her thought of him could be either enhanced or damned by his answer. "We all want safety for those we love," he spoke finally, feeling now only the remorse a liar could feel.

She pulled back from him as though he was ridden with disease, disgust crossing her fair skin. "I never thought...you of all...you would suppress me too, mold me into whom you desire!"

"Guinevere," he called painfully, his dishonesty and her repulsion resulting from it nearly causing him an actual physical suffering.

"No." She strode away from him but glanced back callously from the doorway, the lights of the hall showing a ring of brightness around her body. "You are as all men are. No different at all." She paused thoughfully, her hand reaching to her temples, sore with the difficulties of the night. "For a time, I believed that you saw me truly and would not deny me the pleasure of myself. But now I know there is nothing special between us. You are nothing to me but another man seeking to dominate!" Guinevere did not wait for his response as she hurried quickly from his presence, tears threateningly to reveal her weakness.

Lancelot sat deflated in his old seat, surmising that he should be pleased that he had now driven her from him entirely. All with a simple lie. No, he would not have asked Guinevere to abstain from fighting in the great battle that would determine the fate of her country. He knew bitterly that freedom was precious and not to be denied under any circumstance, man or woman, lover or no lover. But he had lied in order to assure her hatred of him, so that she would not unknowingly continue to tempt him. He had succeeded but at what cost?

* * *

The next morning Guinevere was rudely awoken from a restful sleep buy the roaring sounds of the alarm bells from the watchtowers. All who heard them knew at the same moment—_They were here_. It was time to fight the Saxons. Dressing quickly and carelessly, Guinevere tied part of her long hair back, eager to see Arthur. With haste, she hurried along the long halls of the fort and emerged onto the balcony, her eyes widening. She looked unto the horizon, seeing the early-morning fires of the Saxon camp sprung across the whole landscape horrifically. _There were so many_. Anger burned within her as she recalled her coercion into staying behind; _I should be there_, she thought furiously, her mouth set in a grim line.

"Be thankful you are not," a voice behind her interrupted gently. "It will be no easy feat."

Guinevere closed her eyes, uncertain if she could face Lancelot now, of all times. She had not forgotten his betrayal of the last night and had fully intended on ensuring he did not either. But now, as he came beside her and she saw the handsomeness of his face, only made more so with the anticipation of battle, it was more difficult to harden herself against him then she had imagined. Thankfully, her words could do what her heart strayed from. "The same blood flows through our veins, Lancelot! We both carry the blood of a warrior—it is what we do. But I have been forbidden from it! Oh, I am so very thankful on this day!" she exclaimed with sarcasm, refusing to note the sadness in his deeply brown, bewitching eyes.

Lancelot said nothing for a time, but she needed not his words to feel the sheer imbalance of herself he caused; her thoughts were incoherent and her body so very alert to his near presence. She thought for a moment that perhaps her stubbornness was getting the better of a moment of which there were too few. He was going into battle; there was a chance his life would be turned to the ground and did she truly want to remember their last moment as one full of spite and ignorance, particularly since there was already much left unspoken between them. Guinevere opened her mouth, wondering if she really had the nerve to surrender her defiance but of that she would never know, as Lancelot coughed awkwardly at the exact same moment.

"If I should ever fall, I bequeath to you now my horse," he announced abruptly, standing taller. "May she protect you as I would have. And that way, I will ever be at your side. He said nothing more, but gave a final look unto the busy horizon, the sun peeking delicately from waves of purple, orange, and pink and was gone quickly, leaving Guinevere alone to her own puzzled mind. Horses were to Knights what children were to mothers; there was no greater honour, she knew, than to be given the horse of a Knight, especially that of a Knight who had fallen. A small glimmer of worry flickered in her stomach but she bade it be gone, her old anger settling once again as she saw the villagers of the Wall setting war traps and painting themselves in traditional battle paints. Her place should be with _them_.

The next few hours passed speedily, excitement glowing on the faces of all, from elder war heros of times past to little children, too young to wield a sword. When the sun had finally broke, Arthur had given the order to initiate the battle to end the oppression of the Saxons with a rousing, sincere speech aimed at strengthening the hearts of all the men. She had bade him goodbye with all the tenderness she could muster, struggling with her own embittered soul. She did not wish an unfortunate fate for Arthur, never could she think such a thing, but that did not keep her from resenting him. And her resentment was no quiet matter, for it drove her to her own will. Enough was enough.

After giving her best wishes to Arthur and his Knights, Guinevere strode into her chamber, stripping off her long gown and pulling her dark hair tightly back. She tore her traditional Woad war gear from its hiding spot beneath the bed and, with a determined expression on her face, began to prepare, pulling her various daggers from sheaths hidden around her room.

One of the women Arthur had sent to aid her, as a Queen should be waited on and not a solitary figure in the court, stared at Guinevere hurrying around, her blue eyes large and full of astonishment. "My Lady?"

"I am going to fight today." Guinevere tossed a glance to the young woman and grinned. No man would define her fate—at least, not without a fight.

She emerged from the fortress feeling a strange invincibility but her spirit was broken slightly as she set her eyes upon the battlefield. Blood seemed to cloak her eyesight and her ears oblivious to all sounds but the tortured screams of souls left in that empty space between life and death. Inhaling deeply, she suppressed her own cries of anguish for these lost souls, both of her side and the Saxons...they were all humans regardless of country. She ripped her sword from its sheath, feeling that old comfortable enthusiasm for battle wash over her and ran, screaming the Woad war cry, into the battlefield. Her eyes were alert, attentive to her enemies, but also looking for the people she cared for. Merlin. Arthur. The Knights...Lancelot. She felt as shiver run through her as she thought of Lancelot, somewhere on this battlefield...was he dead or alive? Surely, she would know if he were dead, her heart would know, would it not? But there was a small feeling of panic sitting in the bottom of her stomach as she realized something was not right. It was in the wind.

"Aarrrghh!" A Saxon screamed, drawing his axe above her head. Guinevere ducked tactically and rolled twice onto the ground, springing back up easily. She pulled the man's screaming face towards her as she slashed her knife through his gut, feeling his warm blood spread across her hands and arms.

She ripped through members of the Saxon army, her only focus was to find Lancelot, to be assured that he breathed still. As she plowed through, her dagger stabbing this way and that, she did not know how many Saxon fighters she killed or even how. It seemed to her that Lancelot's face danced before her eyes. A last glimpse? "Noooo!" She screamed out loud, slicing a man's throat in two, her hands now entirely covered in sticky blood.

Finally, as the battle began to wind down and it was evident that the Saxons had been defeated, however marginally, Guinevere scanned the field, looking for some sign of Lancelot, Arthur...anyone. A dying Saxon, a knife embedded in his stomach, pulled at her foot causing her to recoil and push the knife in deeper, her eyes glinting as she was him take his last breath. Looking up, she caught sight of Gawain and Galahad, both blood-stained but alive, theirs faces unnaturally somber. She went to them, growing desperate for news of the others, and they nodded at her, a sort of silent congratulation.

"Arthur is alive. He has ridden into the forest though. He needs time," Galahad said, not meeting Guinevere's inquiring stare.

Guinevere did not understand, her mind brutally thinking only of Lancelot's welfare and surprised to hear of Arthur. "Time for what?"

Neither man replied; it was as though she had not spoken. Gradually, Guinevere came to a horrific realization, one she could not bear to face."Lancelot," her said slowly, her dark eyes maddening as she looked questioningly at Gawain and Galahad. She sensed all ready their grim replies but needed to hear it from their own lips. "Where is he?"

Galahad looked away from her and across the horizon, tears stinging his eyes. Gawain coughed and then swallowed, his face overwhelmed with emotion. "He fell," was all he could say before he kneeled onto the blood-stained grass, his head in his hands.

Galahad swallowed and patted the side of a horse near him. "We saw him fighting a load of Saxons over here, but now all there is left is his horse—there was some sort of explosion that turned fire unto this whole area," he explained emotionally, gesturing with his hands.

Guinevere looked around, her eyes stunned, as she finally noticed the charred land and remains of those who had once stood where they stood now. _No_. "You do not know that he was kil—that he was here!"

"He was last seen here! We have searched across this entire battlefield for him—or at least his remains so we could bury him with the others. There is nothing! Nothing!" Anger creeped into Galahad's expression as he was forced to come to terms with the loss of his friend.

Guinevere shook her head adamantly. "Well we must look again! You may have missed--," She stopped suddenly, her eyes widening in both surprise and utter horror as Galahad took in his hands two swords that had lain on the ground, covered in ashes. The swords of Lancelot. Never was he without them...unless he had gone to a place that needed them not.

_No. No_!


End file.
